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HORTUS  INCLUSUS 

ALSO 

IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS— COELl  ENARRANT 
NOTES  ON  VARIOUS  PICTURES 

“PR^TERITA” 

OUTLINES  OF  SCENES  AND  THOUGHTS,  PERHAPS  WORTHY  OF 
MEMORY,  IN  MY  PAST  LIFE 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.A. 

AUTHOR  OF  “the  SEVEN  LAMTS  OF  ARCHITECTURE,”  “ THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE,” 
“sesame  and  LILIES,”  ETC. 


BOSTON 

ALDINE  BOOK  PUBLISHING  CO. 


PUBLISHERS 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 


Hortus  Inclusus.  Messages  from  the  Wood  to  the  Gar- 
den, SENT  IN  Happy  Days  to  the  Sister  Ladies  of  the 
Thwaite,  Coniston, 5 

In  Montibus  Sanctis.  Studies  of  Mountain  Form  and  of 

vns  Visible  Causes, 107 

C(ELi  Enarrant.  Studies  of  Cloud  Form  and  of  its  Visi- 
ble Causes, 149 

Notes  on  Some  of  the  Principal  Pictures  Exhibited  in 

the  Dooms  of  the  Royal  Academy,  1875, 1«9 

Notes  by  Mr.  Ruskin  on  Samuel  Prout  and  William 

Hunt,  211 

Catalogue  of  the  Drawings  and  Sketches  of  J.  M.  W. 

Turner,  R.A., 295 

Guide  to  the  Principal  Pictures  in  the  Academy  of  Fine 

Arts  at  Venice,  341 


m- 


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.....  . 

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are 


HORTUS  IlSrOLUSUS. 


MESSAGES  FROM  THE  WOOD  TO  THE  GARDEH, 


SENT  IN  HAPPY  DAYS  TO  THE 
SISTER  LADIES  OP  THE  THWAITE,  CONISTON, 


BY  THEIR  THANKFUL  FRIEND 


JOHN  RUSKIN,  LL.D. 


PEEFAOE. 


The  ladies  to  whom  these  letters  were  written  have  been, 
throughout  their  brightly  tranquil  lives,  at  once  sources  and 
loadstones  of  all  good  to  the  village  in  which  they  had  their 
homes,  and  to  all  loving  people  who  cared  for  the  village  and 
its  vale  and  secluded  lake,  and  whatever  remained  in  them  or 
around  of  the  former  peace,  beauty,  and  pride  of  English 
Shepherd  Land. 

Sources  they  have  been  of  good,  like  one  of  its  mountain 
springs,  ever  to  be  found  at  need.  They  did  not  travel ; they 
did  not  go  up  to  London  in  its  season  ; they  did  not  receive  idle 
visitors  to  jar  or  waste  their  leisure  in  the  waning  year.  The 
poor  and  the  sick  could  find  them  always  ; or  rather,  they 
watched  for  and  prevented  all  poverty  and  pain  that  care  or 
tenderness  could  relieve  or  heal.  Loadstones  they  were,  as 
steadil}^  bringing  the  light  of  gentle  and  wise  souls  about 
them  as  the  crest  of  their  guardian  mountain  gives  pause 
to  the  morning  clouds  ; in  themselves  they  were  types  of 
perfect  womanhood  in  its  constant  happiness,  queens  alike  of 
their  own  hearts  and  of  a Paradise  in  which  they  knew  the 
names  and  sympathized  with  the  spirits  of  every  living 
creature  that  God  had  made  to  play  therein,  or  to  blossom  in 
its  sunshine  or  shade. 

They  had  lost  their  dearly-loved  j^ounger  sister,  Margaret, 
before  I knew  them.  Mary  and  Susie,  alike  in  benevolence, 
serenity,  and  practical  judgment,  were  yet  v^idely  different, 
nay,  almost  contrary,  in  tone  and  impulse  of  intellect.  Both 
t)f  them  capable  of  understanding  whatever  women  should 
know,  the  elder  was  yet  chiefly  interested  in  the  course  of 


10 


r RE  FACE. 


immediate  English  business,  policy,  and  progressive  science, 
while  Susie  lived  an  aerial  and  enchanted  life,  possessing  all 
the  highest  joys  of  imagination,  while  she  yielded  to  none  of 
its  deceits,  sicknesses,  or  errors.  She  saw  and  felt,  and  believed 
all  good,  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  was  to  be,  in  the  reality 
and  eternity  of  its  goodness,  with  the  acceptance  and  the  hope 
of  a child  ; the  least  things  were  treasures  to  her,  and  her 
moments  fuller  of  joy  than  some  people’s  days. 

What  she  has  been  to  me,  in  the  days  and  years  when  other 
friendship  has  been  failing,  and  others  ’ “ loving,  mere  folly,” 
the  reader  will  enough  see  from  these  letters,  wu'itten  certainly 
for  her  only,  but  from  which  she  has  permitted  my  Master  of 
the  Rural  Industries  at  Loughrigg,  Albert  Fleming,  to  choose 
what  he  thinks,  among  the  tendrils  of  clinging  thought,  and 
mossy  cups  for  dew  in  the  Garden  of  Herbs  where  Love  is, 
may  be  trusted  to  the  memorial  sympathy  of  the  readers  of 
“ Frondes  Agrestes.” 


Brantwood,  June^  1887. 


J.  R. 


IFTEODUCTIOISr. 


Often  during  those  visits  to  the  Thwaite  which  have  grown 
to  be  the  best-spent  hours  of  my  later  years,  I have  urged  my 
dear  friend,  Miss  Beever,  to  open  to  the  larger  world  the  pleas- 
ant paths  of  this  her  Garden  Enclosed.  The  inner  circle  of  her 
friends  knew  that  she  had  a goodly  store  of  Mr.  Buskin’s  let- 
ters, extending  over  many  years.  She  for  her  part  had  long 
desired  to  share  with  others  the  j)leasure  these  letters  had 
given  her,  but  she  shrank  from  the  fatigue  of  selecting  and 
arranging  them.  It  was,  therefore,  with  no  small  feeling  of 
satisfaction  that  I drove  home  from  the  Thwaite  one  day  in 
February  last  with  a parcel  containing  nearly  two  thousand 
of  these  treasured  letters.  I was  gladdened  also  by  generous 
permission,  both  from  Brantw’ood  and  the  Thwaite,  to  choose 
what  I liked  best  for  publication.  The  letters  themselves  are 
the  fruit  of  the  most  beautiful  friendship  I have  ever  been 
Ijermitted  to  witness,  a friendship  so  unique  in  some  aspects 
of  it,  so  sacred  in  all,  that  I may  only  give  it  the  praise  of  si- 
lence. I count  myself  happy  to  have  been  allowed  to  throw 
open  to  all  wise  and  quiet  souls  the  portals  of  this  Ar- 
mida’s  Garden,  where  there  are  no  spells  save  those  woven  by 
love,  and  no  magic  save  that  of  grace  and  kindliness.  Here 
my  pleasant  share  in  this  little  book  would  have  ended,  but 
Mr.  Buskin  has  desired  me  to  add  a few  words,  giving  my 
ow’ii  description  of  Susie,  and  speaking  of  my  relationship  to 
them  both.  To  him  I owe  the  guidance  of  my  life — all  its 
best  impulses,  all  its  worthiest  efforts  ; to  her  some  of  its 
happiest  hours,  and  the  blessings  alike  of  incentive  and 
reproof.  In  reading  over  Mr.  Buskin’s  Preface,  I note  that, 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


either  by  grace  of  purpose  or  happy  chance,  he  has  left  me 
one  point  untouched  in  our  dear  friend’s  character.  Her 
letters  inserted  here  give  some  evidence  of  it,  but  I should  like 
to  place  on  record  how  her  intense  delight  in  sweet  and 
simple  things  has  blossomed  into  a kind  of  mental  frolic  and 
dainty  wit,  so  that  even  now,  in  the  calm  autumn  of  her  days, 
her  friends  are  not  only  lessoned  by  her  ripened  wisdom,  but 
cheered  and  recreated  by  her  quaint  and  sprightly  humor. 

In  the  Royal  Order  of  Gardens,  as  Bacon  puts  it,  there  was 
always  a quiet  resting-place  called  the  Pleasaunce ; there  the 
daisies  grew  unchecked,  and  the  grass  was  ever  the  greenest. 
Such  a Pleasaunce  do  these  Letters  seem  to  me.  Here  and 
there,  indeed,  there  are  shadows  on  the  grass,  but  no  shadow 
ever  falls  between  the  two  dear  friends  who  walk  together 
hand  in  hand  along  its  pleasant  paths.  So  may  they  walk  in 
peace  till  they  stand  at  the  gate  of  another  Garden,  where 


“ Co’  fiori  eterni,  eterno  il  friitto  dura.’* 

Neaum  Crag, 

Loughrigg, 

Ambleside. 


A.  F. 


HORTUS  INOLUSUS. 


THE  sacristan’s  CELL. 

Assisi,  lUli  April,  1874. 

* I got  to-day  your  lovely  letter  of  the  6th,  but  I never  knew 
my  Susie  could  be  such  a naughty  little  girl  before  ; to  burn 
her  pretty  story  ^ instead  of  sending  it  to  me.  It  would  have 
come  to  me  so  exactly  in  the  right  place  here,  whei-e  St. 
Francis  made  the  grasshopper  (cicada,  at  least)  sing  to  him 
upon  his  hand,  ^nd  preached  to  the  birds,  and  made  the  wolf 
go  its  rounds  every  day  as  regularly  as  any  Franciscan  friar, 
to  ask  for  a little  contribution  to  its  modest  dinner.  The  Bee 
and  Narcissus  would  have  delighted  to  talk  in  this  enchanted 
air. 

Yes,  that  is  really  very  pretty  of  Dr.  John  to  inscribe  yonr 
books  so,  and  it’s  so  like  him.  How  these  kind  people  under- 
stand things ! And  that  bit  of  his  about  the  child  is  wholly 
lovely  ; I am  so  glad  you  copied  it. 

I often  think  of  you,  and  of  Coniston  and  Brant  wood. 
You  wdll  see,  in  the  May  Fors,  reflections  upon  the  tempta- 
tions to  the  life  of  a Franciscan. 

There  are  two  monks  here,  one  the  sacristan  who  has 
charge  of  the  entire  church,  and  is  responsible  for  its  treas- 
ures ; the  other  exercising  what  authority  is  left  to  the  con- 
vent among  the  people  of  the  town.  They  are  both  so  good 
and  innocent  and  sweet,  one  can’t  pity  them  enough.  For 
this  time  in  Italy  is  just  like  the  Beformation  in  Scotland,  with 


* The  Bee  and  Narcissus. 


14 


HORTTIS  INCLUSUS. 


only  the  difference  that  the  Keform  movement  is  carried  on 
here  simply  for  the  sake  of  what  money  can  be  got  by  Church 
confiscation.  And  these  two  brothers  are  living  by  indul- 
gence, as  the  Abbot  in  the  Monastery  of  St.  Mary’s  in  the 
Kegent  Moray’s  time. 

The  people  of  the  village,  however,  are  all  true  to  their 
faith  ; it  is  only  the  governing  body  which  is  modern-infidel 
and  radical.  The  population  is  quite  charming — a word  of 
kindness  makes  them  as  bright  as  if  you  brought  them  news 
of  a friend.  All  the  same,  it  does  not  do  to  offend  them ; 
Monsieur  Cavalcasella,  who  is  expecting  the  Government 
order  to  take  the  Tabernacle  from  the  Sanctuary  of  St. 
Francis,  cannot,  it  is  said,  go  out  at  night  with  safety.  Ho 
decamped  the  day  before  I came,  having  some  notion,  I fancy, 
that  I would  make  his  life  a burden  to  him,  if  he  didn’t,  by 
day,  as  much  as  it  was  in  peril  by  night.  I promise  myself  a 
month  of  very  happy  time  here  (happy  for  me,  I mean)  when 
I return  in  Ma}'’. 

The  sacristan  gives  me  my  coffee  for  lunch,*  in  his  own  little 
cell,  looking  out  on  the  olive  woods ; then  he  tells  me  stories 
of  conversions  and  miracles,  and  then  perhaps  we  go  into  the 
sacristy  and  have  a reverent  little  poke  out  of  relics.  Fancy 
a great  carved  cupboard  in  a vaulted  chamber  full  of  most 
precious  things  (the  box  which  the  Holy  Virgin’s  veil  used  to 
be  kept  in,  to  begin  with),  and  leave  to  rummage  in  it  at  will ! 
Things  that  are  only  shown  twice  in  the  year  or  so,  with 
fumigation ! all  the  congregation  on  their  knees  ; and  the 
sacristan  and  I having  a great  heap  of  them  on  the  table  at 
once,  like  a dinner  service  ! I really  looked  with  great  respect 
at  St.  Francis’s  old  camel-hair  dress. 

I am  obliged  to  go  to  Eome  to-morrow,  however,  and  to 
Naples  on  Saturday,  My  witch  of  Sicily  * expects  me  this 
day  week,  and  she’s  going  to  take  me  such  lovely  drives,  and 
talks  of  “ excursions  ” which  I see  by  the  map  are  thirty  miles 
away.  I wonder  if  she  thinks  me  so  horribly  old  that  it’s 
quite  proper.  It  will  be  very  nice  if  she  does,  but  not  flatter- 


* Miss  Amy  Yule.  See  “ Prseterita/’  Vol.  III.,  Chap.  vii. 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


15 


ing.  1 know  her  mother  can’t  go  with  her,  I suppose  lier 
maid  will.  If  she  wants  any  other  chaperone  I won’t  go. 

She’s  really  very  beautiful,  I believe,  to  some  people’s 
tastes  (I  shall  be  horribly  disappointed  if  she  isn’t,  in  her  own 
dark  style),  and  she  writes,  next  to  Susie,  the  loveliest  letters 
I ever  get. 

Now,  Susie,  mind,  you’re  to  be  a very  good  child  wdiile  I’m 
away,  and  never  to  burn  any  more  stories  ; and  above  all, 
you’re  to  write  me  just  what  comes  into  your  head,  and  ever 
to  believe  me  your  loving  J.  R. 


Naples,  2d  Matjy  1874. 

I heard  of  your  great  sorrow  * from  Joan  f six  days  ago,  and 
have  not  been  able  to  write  since.  Nothing  silences  me  so 
much  as  sorrow,  and  for  this  of  yours  I have  no  com- 
fort. I write  only  that  you  may  know  that  I am  think- 
ing of  you,  and  would  help  you  if  I could.  And  I write  to- 
day because  your  lovely  letters  and  your  lovely  old  age  have 
been  forced  into  my  thoughts  often  by  dreadful  contrast  dur- 
ing these  days  in  Italy.  You  who  are  so  purely  and  brightly 
happy  in  all  natural  and  simple  things,  seem  now  to  belong 
to  another  and  a younger  world.  And  your  letters  have  been 
to  me  like  the  pure  air  of  Yewdale  Crags  breathed  among  the 
Pontine  Marshes  ; but  you  must  not  think  I am  ungrateful 
for  them  when  I can’t  answer.  You  can  have  no  idea  how 
impossible  it  is  for  me  to  do  all  the  work  necessary  even  for 
memory  of  the  things  I came  here  to  see ; how  much  escai^es 
me,  how  much  is  done  in  a broken  and  weary  way.  I am  the 
only  author  on  art  who  does  the  work  of  illustration  with  his 
own  hand  ; the  only  one  therefore — and  I am  not  insolent  in 
saying  this — who  has  learned  his  business  thoroughly  ; but 
after  a day’s  drawing  I assure  you  one  cannot  sit  down  to 
write  unless  it  be  the  merest  nonsense  to  please  Joanie. 
Believe  it  or  not,  there  is  no  one  of  ray  friends  whom  I write 
so  scrupulously  to  as  to  you.  You  may  be  vexed  at  this, 

* The  death  of  Miss  Margaret  Beever. 

f Mrs.  Arthur  Severn. 


16 


HOBTUS  INCLU8U8. 


but  indeed  I can’t  but  try  to  write  carefully  in  answer  to  all 
your  kind  words,  and  so  sometimes  I can’t  at  all.  1 must  tell 
you,  however,  to-day,  what  I saw  in  the  Pompeian  frescoes — 
the  great  characteristic  of  falling  Piome,  in  her  furious  desire 
of  pleasure,  and  brutal  incapability  of  it.  The  walls  of 
Pompeii  are  covered  with  paintings  meant  only  to  give  pleas- 
ure, but  nothing  they  represent  is  beautiful  or  delightful,  and 
yesterday,  among  other  calumniated  and  caricatured  birds,  I 
saw  one  of  my  Susie’s  pets,  a peacock  ; and  he  had  only  eleven 
eyes  in  his  tail.  Fancy  the  feverish  wretchedness  of  the 
humanity  which,  in  mere  pursuit  of  pleasure  or  power,  had 
reduced  itself  to  see  no  more  than  eleven  eyes  in  a peacock’s 
tail ! What  were  the  Cyclops  to  this  ? 

I hope  to  get  to  Eome  this  evening,  and  to  be  there 
settled  for  some  time,  and  to  have  quieter  hours  for  my 
letters. 


Rome,  23fZ  May^  1874. 

A number  of  business  letters  and  the  increasing  instinct 
for  work  here  as  time  shortens,  have  kept  me  too  long  from 
even  writing  a mere  mamma-note  to  you  ; though  not  without 
thought  of  you  daily. 

I have  your  last  most  lovelj^  line  about  your  sister — and  giv- 
ing me  that  most  touching  fact  about  poor  Dr.  John  Brown, 
which  I am  grieved  and  yet  thankful  to  know,  that  I may 
better  still  reverence  his  unfailing  kindness  and  quick  sym- 
pathy. I have  a quite  wonderful  letter  from  him  about  you  ; 
but  I will  not  tell  you  what  he  sa^^s,  only  it  is  so  very,  verj' 
true,  and  so  very,  very  pretty,  you  can’t  think. 

I have  written  to  my  bookseller  to  find  for  you,  and  send,  a 
complete  edition  of  “Modern  Painters,”  if  findable.  If  not,  I 
will  make  my  assistant  send  you  down  my  own  fourth  and  fifth 
volumes,  which  you  can  keep  till  I come  for  them  in  the  autumn. 

There  is  nothing  now  in  the  year  but  autumn  and  winter. 
I really  begin  to  think  there  is  some  terrible  change  of  climate 
coming  upon  the  world  for  its  sin,  like  another  deluge.  It 
will  have  its  rainbow,  I suppose,  after  its  manner — promising 
not  to  darken  the  world  again,  and  then  not  to  drown. 


lIOPiTUS  INGLUSU8. 


17 


Rome,  24dli  May^  1874  ( Whit- Sunday). 

I have  to-day,  to  make  the  day  whiter  for  me,  your  love- 
ly letter  of  the  14th,  telling  me  your  age.  I am  so  glad  it 
is  no  more  ; you  are  only  thirteen  years  older  than  I,  and 
much  more  able  to  be  my  sister  than  mamma,  and  I hope  you 
will  have  many  years  of  youth  yet.  I think  I must  tell  you 
in  return  for  this  letter  what  Dr.  John  Brown  said,  or  part  of 
it  at  least.  He  said  you  had  the  playfulness  of  a lamb  with- 
out its  selfishness.  I think  that  perfect  as  far  as  it  goes. 
Of  course  my  Susie’s  wise  and  grave  gifts  must  be  told  of 
afterward.  There  is  no  one  I know,  or  have  known,  so  well 
able  as  you  are  to  be  in  a degree  what  my  mother  was  to  me. 
In  this  chief  way  (as  well  as  many  other  ways)  (the  puzzle- 
ment I liave  had  to  force  that  sentence  into  grammar!),  that 
I have  had  the  same  certainty  of  giving  you  pleasure  by  a 
few  words  and  by  any  little  account  of  what  I am  doing. 
But  then  you  know  I have  just  got  out  of  the  way  of  doing 
as  I am  bid,  and  unless  you  can  scold  me  back  into  that,  you 
can’t  give  me  the  sense  of  support. 

Tell  me  more  about  yourself  first,  and  how  those  years 
came  to  be  “ lost.”  I am  not  sure  that  they  were  ; though  I 
am  very  far  from  holding  the  empty  theory  of  compensation  ; 
but  much  of  the  slighter  pleasure  you  lost  then  is  evidently 
still  open  to  you,  fresh  all  the  more  from  having  been  for  a 
time  withdrawn. 

The  Eoman  peasants  are  very  gay  to-da^g  with  roses  in  their 
hair  ; legitimately  and  honorably  decorated,  and  looking- 
lovely.  Oh  me,  if  they  had  a few  Susies  to  take  human  care 
of  them,  what  a glorious  people  they  would  be  I 


THE  LOST  CHURCH  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

Rome,  2d  June.,  1874. 

Ah,  if  you  were  but  among  the  marbles  here,  though  there 
are  none  finer  than  that  you  so  strangely  discerned  in  my 
study  ; but  they  are  as  a white  company  innumerable,  ghost 
after  ghost.  And  how  you  would  rejoice  in  them  and  in  a 
2 


18 


IIOUTUS  IXCLUSUS. 


thousand  things  besides,  to  which  I am  dead,  from  having 
seen  too  much  or  worked  too  painfully — or,  worst  of  all,  lost 
the  hope  which  gives  all  life. 

Last  Sunday  I was  in  a lost  church  found  again — a church 
of  the  second  or  third  century,  dug  in  a green  hill  of  the 
Campagna,  built  underground  ; — its  secret  entrance  like  a 
sand-martin’s  nest.  Such  the  temple  of  the  Lord,  as  the 
King  Solomon  of  that  time  had  to  build  it  ;*  not  “ the  moun- 
tains of  the  Lord’s  house  shall  be  established  above  the  hills,” 
but  the  cave  of  the  Lord’s  house  as  the  fox’s  hole,  beneath 
them. 

And  here,  now  lighted  by  the  sun  for  the  first  time  (for  they 
are  still  digging  the  earth  from  the  steps),  are  the  marbles  of 
those  early  Christian  days  ; the  first  efforts  of  their  new  hope 
to  show  itself  in  enduring  record,  the  new  hope  of  a Good 
Shepherd  ; — there  they  carved  Him,  with  a spring  flowing  at 
His  feet,  and  round  Him  the  cattle  of  the  Campagna  in  which 
they  had  dug  their  church,  the  very  self-same  goats  which 
this  morning  have  been  trotting  past  my  window  through  the 
most  populous  streets  of  Rome,  innocently  following  their 
shepherd,  tinkling  their  bells,  and  shaking  their  long  spiral 
horns  and  white  beards  ; the  very  same  dew-lapped  cattle 
which  were  that  Sundaj^  morning  feeding  on  the  hillside  above, 
carved  on  the  tomb-marbles  sixteen  hundred  years  ago. 

How  you  would  have  liked  to  see  it,  Susie  ! 

And  now  to-day  I am  going  to  work  in  an  eleventh  century 
church  of  quite  proud  and  victorious  Christianity,  with  its 
grand  bishops  and  saints  lording  it  over  Italy.  The  bishop’s 
throne  all  marble  and  mosaic  of  precious  colors  and  of  gold, 
high  under  the  vaulted  roof  at  the  end  behind  the  altar  ; and 
line  upon  line  of  pillars  of  massive  porphyry  and  marble, 
gathered  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  temples  of  the  great  race  who 
had  persecuted  them,  till  they  had  said  to  the  hills.  Cover  us, 
like  the  wicked.  And  then  their  proud  time  came,  and  their 
enthronement  on  the  seven  hills ; and  now,  what  is  to  be  their 
fate  once  more  ? — of  pope  and  cardinal  and  dome,  Peter’s  or 
Paul’s  by  name  only, — “My  house,  no  more  a house  of 
prayer,  but  a den  of  thieves.” 


H0RTU8  INGLU8U8. 


19 


I can’t  write  any  more  this  morning.  Oh  me,  if  one  could 
only  write  and  draw  all  one  wanted,  and  have  our  Susies  and 
be  young  again,  oneself  and  they  ! (As  if  there  were  two 
Susies,  or  co^.dd  be  ! 

Ever  my  one  Susie’s  very  loving,  J.  Euskin. 

I have  sent  word  to  my  father’s  old  head-clerk,  now  a great 
merchant  himself,  to  send  you  a little  case  of  that  champagne. 
Please  like  it. 


KEGRETS. 

Assisi,  June  Wi. 

Yes,  I am  a little  oppressed  just  now  with  overwork,  nor  is 
this  avoidable.  I am  obliged  to  leave  all  my  drawings  un- 
linished  as  the  last  days  come,  and  the  point  possible  of  ap- 
proximate completion  fatally  contracts,  every  hour,  to  a more 
ludicrous  and  warped  mockery  of  the  hope  in  which  one  be- 
gan. It  is  impossible  not  to  w'ork  against  time,  and  that  is 
killing.  It  is  not  labor  itself,  but  competitive,  anxious,  dis- 
appointed labor  that  dries  one’s  soul  out. 

But  don’t  be  frightened  about  me,  you  sweet  Susie.  I 
know  wdien  I must  stop  ; forgive  and  pity  me  only,  because 
sometimes,  nay  often  my  letter  (or  Avord)  to  Susie  must  be 
sacrificed  to  the  last  effort  on  one’s  drawing. 

The  letter  to  one’s  Susie  should  be  a rest,  do  you  think  ? 
It  is  always  more  or  less  comforting,  but  not  rest  ; it  means 
farther  employment  of  the  already  extremely  strained  sensa- 
tional power.  What  one  really  wants  ! I believe  the  only 
true  restorative  is  the  natural  one,  the  actual  presence  of  one’s 

helpmeet.”  The  far  worse  than  absence  of  mine  reverses  rest, 
and  what  is  more,  destroys  one’s  power  of  receiving  from 
others  or  giving. 

How  much  love  of  mine  have  others  lost,  because  that  poor 
sick  child  would  not  have  the  part  of  love  that  belonged  to  her  ! 

I am  ver}’’  anxious  about  your  eyes  too.  For  any  favor 
don’t  write  more  extracts  just  now.  The  books  are  yours 
forever  and  a day — no  loan  ; enjoy  any  bits  that  you  find 
enjoyable,  but  don’t  copy  just  now. 


20 


nOBTUS  INOLUSUS. 


I left  Eome  yesterda}%  and  am  on  my  way  home  ; but, 
alas  ! might  as  well  be  on  my  way  home  from  Cochin  China, 
for  any  chance  I have  of  speedily  arriving.  Meantime  your 
letters  will  reach  me  here  with  speed,  and  will  be  a great 
comfort  to  me,  if  they  don’t  fatigue  you. 


“feondes  agkestes.” 

Perugia,  12;!^  June. 

I am  more  and  more  pleased  at  the  thought  of  this  gathering 
of  yours,  and  soon  expect  to  tell  you  what  the  bookseller  says. 

Meantime  I want  you  to  think  of  the  form  the  collection 
should  take  with  reference  to  my  proposed  re-publication.  I 
mean  to  take  the  botany,  the  geology,  the  Turner  defence,  and 
the  general  art  criticism  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  as  four  separate 
books,  cutting  out  nearly  all  the  preaching,  and  a good  deal 
of  the  sentiment.  Now  what  you  find  pleasant  and  helpful  to 
3"Ou  of  general  maxim  or  reflection,  mast  be  of  some  value  ; 
and  I think  therefore  that  your  selection  will  just  do  for  me 
what  no  other  reader  could  have  done,  least  of  all  I myself  ; 
keep  together,  that  is  to  say,  Avhat  may  be  right  and  true  of 
those  youthful  thoughts.  I should  like  you  to  add  anything 
that  specially  pleases  3^ou,  of  whatever  kind  ; but  to  keep  the 
notion  of  your  book  being  the  didactic  one  as  opposed  to  the 
other  picturesque  and  scientific  volumes,  will  I think  help  you 
in  choosing  between  passages  when  one  or  other  is  to  be 
rejected. 


HOW  I FELL  A^IONG  THIEVES. 

Assist,  VUh  June. 

I have  been  having  a bad  time  lately,  and  have  no  heart  to 
write  to  you.  Very  difficult  and  melancholy  'work,  decipheiing 
what  remains  of  a great  painter  among  stains  of  ruin  and 
blotches  of  repair,  of  five  hundred  years’  gathering.  It  makes 
me  sadder  than  idleness,  which  is  saying  much. 

I was  greatly  flattered  and  petted  by  a saying  in  one  of 
your  last  letters,  about  the  difficulty  I had  in  unpacking  my 


II0BTU8  INGLUSU8. 


21 


mind.  That  is  true ; one  of  my  chief  troubles  at  present  is 
with  the  quantity  of  things  I want  to  say  at  once.  But  you 
don’t  know  how  I find  things  I laid  by  carefully  in  it,  all 
inonldy  and  moth-eaten  when  I take  them  out ; and  what  .a 
lot  of  mending  and  airing  they  need,  and  what  a wearisome 
and  bothering  business  it  is  compared  to  the  early  packing, — • 
one  used  to  be  so  proud  to  get  things  into  the  corners  neatly  ! 

I have  been  failing  in  my  drawings,  too,  and  I’m  in  a 
horrible  inn  kept  by  a Garibaldian  bandit ; and  the  various 
sorts  of  disgusting  dishes  sent  up  to  look  like  a dinner,  and 
to  bo  charged  for,  are  a daily  increasing  horror  and  amaze- 
ment to  me.  They  succeed  in  getting  everything  bad  ; no 
exertion,  no  invention,  could  produce  such  badness,  I believe, 
anywhere  else.  The  hills  are  covered  for  leagues  with  olive- 
trees,  an;l  the  oil’s  bad  ; there  are  no  such  lovely  cattle  elsc- 
Avliere  in  the  world,  and  the  butter’s  bad  ; half  the  country 
j^eoplo  are  shepherds,  but  there’s  no  mutton ; half  the  old 
women  walk  about  with  a pig  tied  to  their  waists,  but  there’s 
no  pork  ; the  vino  grows  wild  anywhere,  and  the  'wine  would 
make  my  teeth  drop  out  of  my  head  if  I took  a glass  of  it  ; 
there  are  no  strawberries,  no  oranges,  no  melons,  the  cherries 
are  as  hard  as  their  stones,  the  beans  only  good  for  horses, 
or  Jack  and  the  beanstalk,  and  this  is  the  size  of  the  biggest 
asparagus — 


I live  here  in  a narrow  street  ten  feet  wide  only,  winding 
up  a hill,  and  it  was  full  this  morning  of  sheep  as  close  as 
they  could  pack,  at  least  a thousand,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach, — tinkle  tinkle,  bleat  bleat,  for  a quarter  of  an  hour. 


IN  TAKADISE. 

Assisi,  Sacristan's  Cell, 

25^/i  June. 

This  letter  is  all  upside  down,  and  this  first  page  written 
last  ; for  I didn’t  like  something  I had  written  about  myself 
last  night  when  I was  tired,  and  have  torn  it  off. 


22 


H0RTU8  INGLU8U8. 


That  star  you  saw  beat  like  a heart  must  have  been  a dog 
star.  A planet  would  not  have  twinkled.  Far  mightier,  he, 
than  any  planet ; burning  with  his  own  planetary  host  doubt- 
less round  him  ; and,  on  some  speckiest  of  the  sj)ecks  of 
them,  evangelical  persons  thinking  our  sun  was  made  for 
them. 

Ah,  Susie,  I do  not  pass,  unthought  of,  the  many  sorrows 
of  which  you  kindly  tell  me,  to  show  me— for  that  is  in  your 
heart — how  others  have  suffered  also. 

But,  Susie,  you  expect  to  see  your  Margaret  again,  and 
you  will  be  happy  with  her  in  heaven.  I wanted  my  Kosie 
here.  In  heaven  I mean  to  go  and  talk  to  Pythagoras  and 
Socrates  and  Valerius  Publicola.  I shan’t  care  a bit  for  Rosie 
there,  she  needn’t  think  it.  What  will  grey  eyes  and  red 
cheeks  be  good  for  there  ? 

These  pious  sentiments  are  all  written  in  my  sacristan’s  cell. 

Now,  Susie,  mind,  though  you’re  only  eight  years  old,  you 
must  try  to  fancy  you’re  ten  or  eleven,  and  attend  to  what  I 
say. 

This  extract  book  of  yours  will  be  most  precious  in  its 
help  to  me,  provided  it  is  kept  within  somewhat  narrow  limits. 
As  soon  as  it  is  done  I mean  to  have  it  published  in  a strong 
and  pretty  but  cheap  form,  and  it  must  not  be  too  bulk}’. 
Consider,  therefore,  not  only  what  you  like,  but  how  far  and 
with  whom  each  bit  is  likely  to  find  consent  and  service. 
You  will  have  to  choose  perhaps,  after  a little  while,  among 
what  you  have  already  chosen.  I mean  to  leave  it  luholly  in 
your  hands  ; it  is  to  be  Susie’s  choice  of  my  writings. 

Don’t  get  into  a flurry  of  responsibility,  but  don’t  at  once 
write  down  all  you  have  a mind  to  ; I know  you’ll  find  a good 
deal ! for  you  are  exactly  in  sympathy  with  me  in  all  things. 


Assisi,  9ih  July,  1874. 

Your  lovely  letters  are  always  a comfort  to  me  ; and  not 
least  when  you  tell  me  you  are  sad.  You  would  be  far  less  in 


* Frondes  Agrestea 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


23 


sympathy  with  me  if  you  were  not,  and  in  the  “ everything 
right  ” humor  of  some,  even  of  some  really  good  and  kind 
persons,  whose  own  matters  are  to  their  mind,  and  who  un- 
derstand by  ‘‘Providence”  the  powder  which  particularly  takes 
care  of  them.  This  favoritism  which  goes  so  sweetly  and 
jdeasantly  down  with  so  many  pious  peojole  is  the  chief  of  all 
stumbling-blocks  to  me,  I must  pray  for  everybody  or  no- 
body, and  can’t  get  into  any  conceptions  of  relation  between 
Heaven  and  me,  if  not  also  between  Heaven  and  earth  (and 
why  Heaven  should  allow  hairs  in  pens  I can’t  think). 

I take  great  care  of  myself,  be  quite  sure  of  that,  Susie  ; 
the  worst  of  it  is,  here  in  Assisi  everybody  else  wants  me  to 
take  care  of  them. 

Catharine  brought  me  up  as  a great  treat  }^esterday,  at 
dinner,  ham  dressed  with  as  much  garlic  as  could  be  stewed 
into  it,  and  a plate  of  raw  ligs,  telling  me  I was  to  eat  them 
together  ! 

The  sun  is  changing  the  entire  mountains  of  Assisi  into  a 
hot  bottle  with  no  flannel  round  it ; but  I can’t  get  a ripe 
phiin,  peach,  or  cherry.  All  the  milk  turns  sour,  and  one 
has  to  eat  one’s  meat  as  its  toughest  or  the  thunder  gets  into 
it  next  day. 


FOAM  OF  TIBER. 

Perugia,  17^7<  My. 

I am  made  anxious  by  your  sweet  letter  of  the  6th  saying 
you  have  been  ill  and  are  “ not  much  better.” 

The  letter  is  all  like  yours,  but  I suppose  however  ill  you 
were  you  would  always  write  prettily,  so  that’s  little  comfort. 

About  the  Narcissus,  please.  I want  them  for  my  fishpond 
stream  rather  than  for  the  bee-house  one.  The  fishpond  stream 
is  very  doleful,  and  wants  to  dance  with  daffodils  if  they 
would  come  and  teach  it.  How  happy  we  are  in  our  native 
streams  ! A thunder-storm  swelled  the  Tiber  yesterday,  and 
it  rolled  over  its  mill  weirs  in  heaps,  literally,  of  tossed  water, 
the  size  of  haycocks,  but  black-brown  like  coffee  with  the 
grounds  in  it,  mixed  with  a very  little  yellow  milk.  In  some 


24 


H0RTU8  INCLU8US. 


lights  the  foam  flew  like  cast  handfuls  of  heavy  gravel.  The 
chief  flowers  here  are  only  broom  and  bindweed,  and  I begin 
to  weary  for  my  heather  and  for  my  Susie  ; but,  oh  dear,  the 
ways  are  long  and  the  days  few. 


'Lvcca.,  July. 

I’m  not  going  to  be  devoured  when  I come,  by  anybody, 
unless  you  like  to.  I shall  come  to  your  window  with  the 
birds,  to  be  fed  myself. 

And  please  at  present  always  complain  to  me  whenever  you 
like.  It  is  the  over-boisterous  cheerfulness  of  common  peo- 
ple that  hurts  me  ; your  sadness  is  a help  to  me. 

You  shall  have  whatever  name  you  like  for  3'our  book,  pro- 
vided you  continue  to  like  it  after  thinking  over  it  long 
enough.  You  will  not  like  “ Gleanings,”  because  you  know 
that  one  only  gleans  refuse — dropped  ears — that  other  peo- 
ple don’t  care  for.  You  go  into  the  garden  and  gather 
with  choice  the  flowers  }^ou  like  best.  That  is  not  gleaning ! 


nuccA,  lOiZi  August. 

I have  been  grieved  not  to  write  to  you  ; but  the  number  of 
things  that  vex  me  are  so  great  just  now,  that  unless  b}'  false 
effort  I could  write  you  nothing  nice.  It  is  very  dreadful  to 
live  in  Ital^g  and  more  dreadful  to  see  one’s  England  and 
one’s  English  friends,  all  but  a field  or  two,  and  a stream  or 
two,  and  a one  Susie  and  one  Er.  Brown,  fast  becoming  like 
Italy  and  the  Italians. 

I have  too  much  sympathy  with  your  sorrow  to  write  to  you 
of  it.  What  I have  not  sympathy  with,  is  your  hope  ; and 
how  cruel  it  is  to  say  this  ! But  I am  driven  more  and  more 
to  think  there  is  to  be  no  more  good  for  a time,  but  a reign 
of  terror  of  men  and  the  elements  alike  ; and  yet  it  is  so  like 
what  is  foretold  before  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  man,  that  per- 
haps in  the  extremest  evil  of  it  I may  some  day  read  the  sign 
that  our  redemption  draws  nigh. 

Now,  Susie,  invent  a nice  cluster  of  titles  for  the  book  and 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


25 


send  them  to  me  to  choose  from,  to  Hotel  de  TArno,  Flor- 
ence. I must  get  that  out  before  the  day  of  judgment,  if  I 
can.  I’m  so  glad  of  your  sweet  flatteries  in  this  note  received 
to-day. 


Florence,  "iWt  A injifsf. 

I liave  not  been  able  to  write  to  you,  or  anyone  lately,  wliom 
I don’t  want  to  tease,  except  Dr.  Drown,  whom  I write  to  for 
counsel.  My  time  is  passed  in  a fierce  steady  straggle  to  save 
all  I can  every  da}',  as  a fireman  from  a smouldering  ruin,  of 
history  or  aspect.  To-day,  for  instance,  I’ve  been  just  in  time 
to  ascertain  tlie  form  of  the  cross  of  the  Emperor,  represent- 
ing the  power  of  the  State  in  the  greatest  political  fresco  of 
old  times— fourteenth  century.  Dy  next  year,  it  may  be  next 
month,  it  will  have  dropped  from  the  wall  with  the  vibration 
of  the  railway  outside,  and  be  toudied  up  with  new  gilding 
for  the  mob. 

I am  keeping  well,  but  am  in  a terrible  spell  (literally^ 
“spell,”  eiKihanted  maze,  that  I can’t  get  out  of)  of  work. 

I loas  a little  scandalized  at  the  idea  of  your  calling  the 
book  “ word  painting.”  My  dearest  Susie,  it  is  tlie  chief 
provocation  of  my  life  to  be  called  a “word  p.ainter”  instead 
of  a thinker.  I hope  you  haven’t  filled  your  book  with  de- 
scriptions. I thought  it  w'as  the  thoughts  you  were  looking 
for  ? 

“ Posie  ” would  be  pretty.  If  you  ask  Joanie  she  will  tell 
you  perhaps  too  pretty  for  me,  and  I can’t  think  a bitto-nigbt, 
for  instead  of  robins  singing  I hear  only  blaspheming  game- 
sters on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  street. 


Florence,  1st  Sex>temher. 

Don’t  be  in  despair  about  your  book.  I am  sure  it  will  be 
lovely.  I’ll  see  to  it  the  moment  I get  home,  but  I’ve  got 
into  an  entirely  unexpected  piece  of  business  here,  the  inter- 
pretation of  a large  chapel  full  of  misunderstood,  or  not  at  all 
understood,  frescoes  ; and  I’m  terribly  afraid  of  breaking 


26 


nORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


down,  so  much  drawing  has  to  be  done  at  the  same  time.  It 
has  stranded  botany  and  everything. 

I was  kept  awake  half  of  last  night  by  drunken  blackguards 
howling  on  the  bridge  of  the  Holy  Trinity  in  the  pure  half- 
moonlight. This  is  the  kind  of  discord  I have  to  bear,  cor- 
responding to  your  uncongenial  company.  But,  alas  ! Susie, 
you  ought  at  ten  years  old  to  have  more  firmness,  and  to  resolve 
that  you  won’t  be  bored.  I think  I shall  try  to  enforce  it  on 
you  as  a very  solemn  duty  not  to  lie  to  people  as  the  vulgar 
public  do.  If  they  bore  you,  say  so,  and  they’ll  go  away. 
That  is  the  right  state  of  things. 

How  am  I to  know  that  I don’t  bore  you,  when  / come, 
when  you’re  so  civil  to  people  you  hate  ? 


Pass  of  Bocchetta,  Ut  October. 

All  that  is  lovely  and  wonderful  in  the  Alps  may  be  seen 
without  the  slightest  danger,  in  general,  and  it  is  especially 
good  for  little  girls  of  eleven,  who  can’t  climb,  to  know  this — • 
all  the  best  views  of  hills  are  at  the  bottom  of  them.  I know 
one  or  two  places  indeed  where  there  is  a grand  peeping  over 
precipices,  one  or  two  where  the  mountain  seclusion  and 
strength  are  worth  climbing  to  see.  But  all  the  entirely  beau- 
tiful things  I could  show  you,  Susie  ; only  for  the  very  highest 
sublime  of  them  sometimes  asking  you  to  endure  half  an  hour 
of  chaise  d porteur,  but  mostly  from  a post-chaise  or  smooth- 
est of  turnpike  roads. 

But,  Susie,  do  you  know,  I’m  greatly  horrified  at  the  pen- 
wipers of  peacock’s  feathers  ! / always  use  my  left-hand  coat- 

tail, indeed,  and  if  only  I were  a peacock  and  a pet  of  yours, 
how  you’d  scold  me  ! 

Sun  just  coming  out  over  sea  (at  Sestri),  which  is  sighing 
in  toward  the  window,  within  your  drive,  round  before  the 
door’s  breadth  of  it,*  seen  between  two  masses  of  acacia 
copse  and  two  orange-trees  at  the  side  of  the  inn  courtyard. 


* That  is,  within  that  distance  of  the  window. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


27 


Geneva,  Wth  October. 

How  I have  been  neglecting  you ! Perhaps  Joanie  may 
have  told  you  that  just  at  my  last  gasp  of  hand-work,  I had 
to  write  quite  an  unexpected  number  of  letters.  But  poor 
Joanie  will  think  herself  neglected  now,  for  I have  been 
stopped  among  the  Alps  by  a state  of  their  glaciers  entirely 
unexampled,  and  shall  be  a week  after  my  “latest  possible” 
day,  in  getting  home.  It  is  eleven  years  since  I was  here, 
and  very  sad  to  me  to  return,  yet  delightful  with  a moon- 
light paleness  of  the  past,  precious  of  its  kind. 

I shall  be  at  home  with  Joan  in  ten  days  now,  God  willing. 
I have  much  to  tell  you,  which  will  give  you  pleasure  and 
pain  ; but  I don’t  know  how  much  it  will  be — to  tell  you — 
for  a little  while  yet,  so  I don’t  begin. 


Oxford,  2Qth  October. 

Home  at  last  with  your  lovely,  most  lovely,  letter  in  my 
breast  pocket,  from  Joan’s  all  the  way  here. 

I am  so  very  grateful  to  you  for  not  writing  on  black 
paper. 

Oh,  dear  Susie,  why  should  we  ever  wear  black  for  the 
guests  of  God? 


WHARFE  IN  FLOOD. 

Bolton  Abbey,  2Uh  January,  1875. 

The  black  rain,  much  as  I growled  at  it,  has  let  me  see 
Wharfe  in  flood  ; and  I would  have  borne  many  days  in 
prison  to  see  that. 

No  one  need  go  to  the  Alps  to  see  wild  water.  Seldom, 
unless  in  the  Khine  or  Rhone  themselves  at  their  rapids,  have 
I seen  anything  much  grander.  An  Alpine  stream,  besides, 
nearly  always  has  its  bed  full  of  loose  stones,  and  becomes 
a series  of  humps  and  dumps  of  water  wherever  it  is  shallow ; 
w'hile  the  Wharfe  swept  round  its  curves  of  shore  like  a black 
Damascus  sabre,  coiled  into  eddies  of  steel.  At  the  Strid,  it 
had  risen  eight  feet  vertical  since  yesterday,  sheeting  the  flat 
rocks  with  foam  from  side  to  side,  while  the  treacherous  mid- 


28 


HORTUS  INGLUSU8, 


chamiel  was  filled  with  a succession  of  boiling  domes  of 
water,  charged  through  and  through  with  churning  white, 
and  rolling  out  into  the  broader  stream,  each  like  a vast  sea- 
wave  bursting  on  a beach. 

There  is  something  in  the  soft  and  comparatively  unbroken 
slopes  of  these  Yorkshire  shales  which  must  give  the  water  a 
peculiar  sweeping  power,  for  I have  seen  Tay  and  Tummel  and 
Ness,  and  many  a big  stream  besides,  savage  enough,  but  I 
don’t  remember  anything  so  grim  as  this. 

I came  home  to  quiet  tea  and  a black  kitten  called  Sweep, 
who  lapped  half  my  cream  jugful  (and  yet  I had  plenty) 
sitting  on  my  shoulder — and  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  I was 
reading  his  great  Scottish  history  tour,  when  he  was  twenty- 
three,  and  got  his  materials  for  everything  nearly,  but  es- 
pecially for  Waveiiej’’,  though  not  used  till  long  afterward. 

Do  you  recollect  Gibbie  Gellatly  ? I was  thinking  over  that 
question  of  }'Ours,  “What  did  I think?”  ^ But,  my  dear 
Susie,  you  might  as  well  ask  Gibbie  Gellatly  what  he  thought. 
What  does  it  matter  what  any  of  us  think  ? We  are  but 
simpletons,  the  best  of  us,  and  I am  a very  inconsistent  and 
wayward  simpleton.  I know  how  to  roast  eggs,  in  the  ashes, 
perhaps — but  for  the  next  world  ? Why  don’t  you  ask  your 
squirrel  what  he  thinks  too  ? The  great  point — the  one  for 
all  of  us — is,  not  to  take  false  words  in  our  mouths,  and  to 
crack  our  nuts  innocently  through  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I shall  post  this  to-morrow  as  I pass  through  Skipton  or 
any  post-worthy  place  on  my  way  to  Wakefield.  Write  to 
Warwick.  Oh,  me,  what  places  England  had,  when  she  was 
herself ! Now,  rail  stations  mostly.  But  I never  can  make 
out  how  Warwick  Castle  got  built  by  that  dull  bit  of  river. 


‘‘  FRONDES.” 

Wakefield,  25?!^  January,  1875. 

Here’s  our  book  in  form  at  last,  and  it  seems  to  me  just  a 
nice  size,  and  on  the  whole  very  taking.  I’ve  put  a touch  or 


* Of  the  things  that  sliall  be,  hereafter. 


HORTUS  INGLU8U8, 


29 


two  more  to  the  preface,  and  I’m  sadly  afraid  there’s  a 
naughty  note  somewhere.  I hope  you  won’t  find  it,  and  that 
you  will  like  the  order  the  things  are  put  in. 

Such  ill  roads  as  we  came  over  to-day,  I never  thought  to 
see  in  England. 


Castleton,  January^  1875. 

Here  I have  your  long,  dear  letter.  I am  very  thankful  1 
can  be  so  much  to  you.  Of  all  the  people  I have  yet  known, 
you  are  the  only  one  I can  find  complete  sympathy  in  ; you 
are  so  nice  and  young,  without  the  hardness  of  youth,  and 
may  be  the  best  of  sisters  to  me.  I am  not  so  sure  about 
letting  you  be  an  elder  one  ; I am  not  going  to  be  lectured 
when  I’m  naughty. 

I’ve  been  so  busy  at  ivasps  all  day  coming  along,  having 
got  a nice  book  about  them.  It  tells  me,  too,  of  a delightful 
German  doctor  who  kept  tame  hornets — a whole  nest  in  his 
study ! They  knew  him  perfectly,  and  would  let  him  do 
anything  with  them,  even  pull  bits  off  their  nest  to  look  in 
at  it. 

Wasps,  too,  my  author  says,  are  really  much  more  amiable 
than  bees,  and  never  get  angry  without  cause.  All  the  same, 
they  have  a tiresome  way  of  inspecting  one,  too  closely,  some- 
times, I think. 

I’m  immensely  struck  with  the  Peak  Cavern,  but  it  was  in 
twilight. 

I’m  going  to  stay  here  all  to-morrow,  the  place  is  so  en- 
tirely unspoiled.  I’ve  not  seen  such  a primitive  village,  rock, 
or  stream,  this  twenty  years  ; Langdale  is  as  sophisticated  as 
Pall  Mall  in  comparison. 

Alas,  I’ve  other  letters  to  write  ! 


WASP  STINGS. 

Bolton  Beidge,  Saturday. 

I never  was  more  thankful  than  for  your  sweet  note,  being 
stopped  here  by  bad  weather  again  ; the  worst  of  posting  is 


30 


HORTUS  INGLU8TJS, 


that  one  has  to  think  of  one’s  servant  outside,  and  so  lose  a 
day. 

It  was  bitter  wind  and  snow  this  morning,  too  bad  to  send 
any  human  creature  to  sit  idle  in.  Black  enough  still,  and  I, 
more  than  usual,  because  it  is  just  that  point  of  distinction 
from  brutes  which  I truly  say  is  our  only  one,*  of  which  I 
have  now  so  little  hold. 

The  bee  Fors  f will  be  got  quickly  into  proof,  but  I must 
add  a good  deal  to  it.  I can’t  get  into  good  humor  for  natu- 
ral history  in  this  weather. 

I’ve  got  a good  book  on  wasps  which  says  they  are  our 
chief  protectors  against  flies.  In  Cumberland  the  wet,  cold 
spring  is  so  bad  for  the  wasps  that  I partly  think  this  may  be 
so,  and  the  terrible  plague  of  flies  in  August  might  perhaps 
be  checked  by  our  teaching  our  little  Agneses  to  keep  wasps’ 
nests  instead  of  bees. 

Yes,  that  is  a pretty  bit  of  mine  about  Hamlet,  and  I think 
I must  surely  be  a little  pathetic  sometimes,  in  a doggish 
way. 

“You’re  so  dreadfully  faithful!  ” said  Arthur  Severn  to  me, 
fretting  over  the  way  I was  being  ill-treated  the  other  day 
by  R. 

Oh,  dear,  I wish  I were  at  Brantwood  again,  now,  and 
could  send  you  my  wasp  book ! It  is  pathetic,  and  yet  so 
dreadful — the  wasp  bringing  in  the  caterpillar  for  its  young 
wasp,  stinging  each  enough  to  paralyze,  but  not  to  kill,  and 
so  laying  them  up  in  the  cupboard. 

I wonder  how  the  clergymen’s  wives  will  feel  after  the  next 
Fors  or  two ! I’ve  done  a bit  to-day  which  I think  will  go  in 
with  a shiver.  Bo  you  recollect  the  curious  thrill  there  is — 
the  cold  tingle  of  the  pang  of  a nice  deep  wasp  sting  ? 

Well,  I’m  not  in  a fit  temper  to  write  to  Susie  to-day, 
clearly. 


I’ve  forgotten  what  it  was,  and  don’t  feel  now  as  if  I had  ‘ got  hold 
of  any  one. 

f See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LI. 


HORTUS  INCLUSU8. 


31 


BOLTON  STKID. 

I stopped  here  to  see  the  Strid  again — not  seen  these  many 
years.  It  is  curious  that  life  is  embittered  to  me,  now,  by  its 
former  pleasantness  ; while  you  have  of  these  same  places 
painful  recollections,  but  you  could  enjoy  them  now  with 
3’our  whole  heart. 

Instead  of  the  drive  with  the  poor  over-labored  one  horse 
through  the  long  wet  day,  here,  when  I was  a youth,  my  father 
and  mother  brought  me,  and  let  me  sketch  in  the  Abbey  and 
ramble  in  the  w'oods  as  I chose,  only  demanding  promise  that 
I should  not  go  near  the  Strid.  Pleasant  drives,  with,  on  the 
whole,  w’’ell  paid  and  pleased  drivers,  never  with  over-burdened 
cattle  ; cheerful  dinner  or  tea  waiting  for  me  always,  on  my 
return  from  solitary  rambles.  Everything  right  and  good  for 
rue,  except  only  that  they  never  put  me  through  any  trials  to 
harden  me,  or  give  me  decision  of  character,  or  make  me  feel 
how  much  they  did  for  me. 

But  that  error  was  a fearful  one,  and  cost  them  and  me, 
Heaven  only  knows  how  much.  And  now,  I walk  to  Strid, 
and  Abbey,  and  everywhere,  with  the  ghosts  of  the  past  days 
haunting  me,  and  other  darker  spirits  of  sorrow  and  remorse 
and  wonder.  Black  spirits  among  the  gray,  all  like  a mist 
between  me  and  the  green  woods.  And  I feel  like  a cater- 
i:>illar — stung enough.  Foul  weather  and  mist  enough, 
of  quite  a real  kind  besides.  An  hour’s  sunshine  to-day, 
broken  up  speedily,  and  now  veiled  utterl3\ 


Herne  Hill,  London, 
IWi  February.,  1875. 

I have  your  sweet  letter  with  news  of  Dr.  John  and  his 
brother.  I have  been  working  on  the  book  to-day  very  hard, 
after  much  interruption  ; it  is  two-thirds  done  now.  So  glad 
people  are  on  tiptoe. 

Paddocks  are  frogs,  not  toads  in  that  grace.*  And  why 


* Herrick’s.  See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  XLIIL 


32 


HOIITUS  INCLU8U8. 


should  not  people  smile  ? Do  you  think  that  God  does  not 
like  smiling’  graces?  He  only  dislikes  frowns.  But  you 
know  when  once  habitual,  the  child  would  be  told  on  a cold 
day  to  say  “ Cold  as  paddocks,”  and  everybody  would  know 
wliat  was  coming.  Finally  the  deep  under-meaning,  that  as 
the  cold  hand  is  lifted,  so  also  the  cold  heart,  and  yet  accepted, 
makes  it  one  of  the  prettiest  little  hymns  I know. 

I cannot  tell  you  how  very  apposite  to  my  work  these  two 
feathers  are.  I am  just  going  to  dwell  on  the  exquisite  result 
of  the  division  into  successive  leaves,  by  which  nature  obtains 
the  glittering  look  to  set  off  her  color  ; and  you  just  send  me 
two  feathers  which  have  it  more  in  perfection  than  any  I 
ever  saw,  and  I think  are  more  vivid  in  color. 

How  these  boys  must  tease  you  ! but  you  will  be  rewarded 
in  the  world  that  good  Susies  go  to. 

You  must  show  me  the  drawing  of  the  grebe.  The  moss 
is  getting  on. 


Venice,  \Wi  8eptemher^  1876. 

I must  just  say  how  thankful  it  makes  me  to  hear  of  this 
true  gentleness  of  English  gentlewomen  in  the  midst  of  the 
vice  and  cruelty  in  which  I am  forced  to  live  here,  where  op- 
pression on  one  side  and  license  on  the  other  rage  as  two  war- 
wolves  in  continual  havoc. 

It  is  very  characteristic  of  fallen  Venice,  as  of  modern  Europe, 
that  here  in  the  principal  rooms  of  one  of  the  chief  palaces, 
in  the  very  headmost  sweep  of  the  Grand  Canal,  there  is  not 
a room  for  a servant  fit  to  keep  a cat  or  a dog  in  (as  Susie 
would  keep  cat  or  dog,  at  least). 


Venice,  \%th  8eptemher. 

I never  knew  such  a fight  as  the  good  and  wicked  fairies 
are  having  over  my  poor  body  and  spirit  just  now.  The  good 
fairies  have  got  down  the  St.  Ursula  for  me  and  given  her  to 
me  all  to  myself,  and  sent  me  fine  weather  and  nice  gondoliers, 
and  a good  cook,  and  a pleasant  waiter  ; and  the  bad  fairies 


nORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


33 


keep  putting  everything  upside  down,  and  putting  black  in 
ii\y  box  when  I Avant  white,  and  making  me  forget  all  I Avant, 
and  find  all  I don’t,  and  making  the  hinges  come  off  my 
boards,  and  the  leaves  out  of  my  books,  and  driving  me  as 
wild  as  wild  can  be  ; but  I’m  getting  something  done  in  spite 
of  them,  only  I never  can  get  my  letters  written. 


Venice,  September  2^tk. 

I have  Avoful  letters  telling  me  you  also  Avere  woful  in  say- 
ing good-by.  My  darling  Susie,  what  is  the  use  of  your 
being  so  good  and  dear  if  you  can’t  enjoy  thinking  of  heaven, 
and  what  ffne  goings  on  we  shall  all  have  there  ? 

All  the  same,  even  Avhen  I’m  at  m^’-  veiy  piousest,  it  puts 
me  out  if  my  drawings  go  Avrong.  I’m  going  to  draw  St. 
Ursula’s  blue  slippers  to-day,  and  if  I can’t  do  them  nicely 
shall  be  in  great  despair.  I’ve  just  found  a little  cunning 
inscription  on  her  bedpost,  ‘ IN  FANNTIA.’  The  double  N 
puzzled  me  at  first,  but  Carpaccio  spells  anyhoAV.  My  head 
is  not  good  enough  for  a bedpost.  . . . Oh  me,  the  SAveet 

Grange  ! — Thwaite,  I mean  (bedpost  again) ; to  think  of  it  in 
this  mass  of  weeds  and  ruin  ! 


ST.  UKSULA. 

Venice,  November. 

I have  to-day  your  dear  little  note,  and  have  desired  Joan 
to  send  you  one  just  Avritten  to  her,  in  Avhich  I have  given 
some  account  of  myself,  that  may  partly  interest,  partly  Avin 
your  pardon  for  apparent  neglect.  Coming  here,  after  prac- 
tically an  interval  of  tAventy-four  years— for  I have  not  seri- 
ously looked  at  anything  during  the  Iavo  hurried  visits  Avith 
Joan — my  old  unfinished  AA^ork,  and  the  possibilities  of  its 
better  completion,  rise  grievously  and  beguilingly  before  me, 
and  I have  been  stretching  my  hands  to  the  shadoAV  of  old 
designs  and  striving  to  fulfil  shortcomings,  ahvays  painful  to 
me,  but  now,  for  the  moment,  intolerable. 


34 


H0BTU8  INCLUSUS. 


I am  also  approaching  the  close  of  the  sixth  year  of  Fors, 
and  have  plans  for  the  Sabbatical  year  of  it,  which  make  my 
thoughts  active  and  troubled.  I am  drawing  much,  and  have 
got  a study  of  St.  Ursula  which  will  give  you  pleasure  ; but 
the  pain  of  being  separate  from  my  friends  and  of  knowing 
they  miss  me  ! I wonder  if  you  will  think  you  are  making 
me  too  vain,  Susie.  Such  vanity  is  a very  painful  one,  for  I 
know  that  you  look  out  of  the  window  on  Sundays  now,  wist- 
fully, for  Joan’s  handkerchief.  This  pain  seems  always  at  my 
heart,  with  the  other  which  is  its  own. 

I am  thankful,  always,  you  like  St.  Ursula.  One  quite  fixed 
plan  for  the  last  year  of  Fors,  is  that  there  shall  be  absolutel}'’ 
no  abuse  or  controversy  in  it,  but  things  which  will  either 
give  pleasure  or  help  ; and  some  clear  statements  of  principle, 
in  language  as  temperate  as  hitherto  violent ; to  show,  for  one 
thing,  that  the  violence  was  not  for  want  of  self-command. 

I’m  going  to  have  a good  fling  at  the  Bishops  in  next  Fors 
to  finish  with,  and  then  for  January  ! — only  I mustn’t  be  too 
good,  Susie,  or  something  would  happen  to  me.  So  I shall 
say  naughty  things  still,  but  in  the  mildest  way. 

I am  very  grateful  to  you  for  that  comparison  about  my 
mind  being  as  crisp  as  a lettuce.  I am  so  thankful  you  can 
feel  that  still.  I was  beginning  to  doubt,  myself. 


ST.  makk’s  doves. 

Venice,  December. 

I have  been  very  dismal  lately.  I hope  the  next  captain  of 
St.  George’s  Company  will  be  a merrier  one  and  happier,  in 
being  of  use.  I am  inherently  selfish,  and  don’t  enjoy  being 
of  use.  I enjoy  painting  and  picking  up  stones  and  flirting 
with  Susies  and  Kathleens  ; it’s  very  odd  that  I never  much 
care  to  flirt  with  any  but  little  girls  ! And  here  I’ve  no 
Susies  nor  Kathleens  nor  Biddies,  and  I’m  only  doing  lots  of 
good,  and  I’m  very  miserable.  I’ve  been  going  late  to  bed 
too.  I picked  myself  up  last  night  and  went  to  bed  at  nine, 
and  feel  cheerful  enough  to  ask  Susie  how  she  does,  and  send 


HORTUS  IKCLUSUS. 


35 


Iier  love  from  St.  Mark’s  cloves.  They’re  really  tiresome  now, 
among  one’s  feet  in  St.  Mark’s  Place,  and  I don’t  know  what 
it  will  come  to.  In  old  times,  when  there  were  not  so  many 
idlers  about,  the  doves  w'ere  used  to  brisk  walkers,  and  moved 
aw'ay  a foot  or  two  in  front  of  one  ; but  now  everybody 
lounges,  or  stands  talking  about  the  Government,  and  the 
doves  won’t  stir  till  one  just  touches  them  ; and  I who  wnlk 
fast  am  always  expecting  to  tread  on  them,  and  it’s  a nui- 
sance. 

If  I only  had  time  I would  fain  make  friends  wdth  the  sea- 
gulls, who  would  be  cjuite  like  angels  if  they  would  only  stop 
on  one’s  balcony.  If  there  were  the  least  bit  of  truth  in  Dar- 
winism, Venice  w'ould  have  had  her  own  born  seagulls  by  this 
time  building  their  nests  at  her  thresholds. 

Now  I must  get  to  work.  Love  to  Mary  and  Miss  Pigbye. 
Now  mind  you  give  my  message  carefully,  Susie,  because 
you’re  a careless  little  thing. 


Venice,  Wtli  Becemher. 

My  mouth’s  watering  so  for  that  Thwaite  currant  jelly,  you 
can’t  think.  I haven’t  had  the  least  taste  of  anything  of  the 
sort  this  three  months.  These  wretches  of  Venetians  live  on 
cigars  and  garlic,  and  have  no  taste  in  their  mouths  for  any- 
thing that  God  makes  nice. 

The  little  drawing  (returned)  is  nice  in  color  and  feeling, 
but,  which  surprises  me,  not  at  all  intelligent  in  line.  It  is 
not  weakness  of  hand  but  fault  of  perspective  instinct,  which 
spoils  so  many  othervdse  good  botanical  drawings. 

Bright  morning.  Sickle  moon  just  hiding  in  a reel  cloud, 
and  the  morning  stars  just  vanished  in  light.  But  we’ve  had 
nearly  three  weeks  of  dark  weather,  so  we  mustn’t  think  it 
poor  Coniston’s  fault — though  Coniston  haa  faults.  Poor  lit- 
tle Susie,  it  shan’t  have  any  more  nasty  messages  to  carry. 


* See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LXXXII, 


3G 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


ST.  mark’s  rest. 

2M  January,  1877. 

I’ve  caught  cold  and  can  think  of  nothing  to  do  me  good 
but  making  you  miserable  by  telling  you  so. 

It’s  not  a very  bad  one.  And  it’s  a wonder  I’ve  got  so  far 
through  the  winter  without  any. 

Things  have  gone  very  well  for  me,  hitherto,  but  I have 
been  depressed  by  hearing  of  my  poor  Kate’s  ^ illness  ; and 
can’t  think  of  Brantwood  with  any  comfort,  so  I come  across 
the  lake  to  the  Thwaite. 

A great  many  lovely  things  happened  to  me  this  Christmas, 
but  if  I were  to  tell  Susie  of  them  I am  sure  she  would  be 
frightened  out  of  her  bright  little  wits,  and  think  I was  going 
to  be  a Eoman  Catholic.  I’m  writing  such  a Catholic  history 
of  Venice,  and  chiselling  all  the  Protestantism  off  the  old 
“ Stones  ” as  they  do  here  the  grass  off  steps. 

All  the  pigeons  of  St.  Mark’s  Place  send  you  their  love. 
St.  Ursula  adds  hers  to  the  eleven  thousand  bird’s  love.  And 
the  darlingest  old  Pope  who  went  a pilgrimage  with  her,  hopes 
you  won’t  be  too  much  shocked  if  he  sends  his  too  ! (If  you’re 
not  shocked,  I am  !) 

My  new  Catholic  history  of  Venice  is  to  be  called  ‘‘St. 
Mark’s  Rest.” 


27/7t  January. 

Joanie  tells  me  you  are  writing  her  such  sad  little  letters. 
How  can  it  be  that  anyone  so  good  and  true  as  my  Susie  should 
be  sad?  I am  sad,  bitterly  enough  and  often,  but  only  with 
sense  of  fault  and  folly  and  lost  opportunity  such  as  you  have 
never  fallen  into  or  lost.  It  is  very  cruel  of  Fate,  I think,  to 
make  us  sad,  who  would  fain  see  everybody  cheerful,  and 
(cruel  of  Fate  too)  to  make  so  many  cheerful  who  make  others 
wretched.  The  little  history  of  Venice  is  well  on,  and  will 
be  clear  and  interesting,  I think — more  than  most  histories  of 
anything.  And  the  stories  of  saints  and  nice  people  will  be 


* Then,  my  head  servant ; now  Kate  Eaven,  of  Coniston. 


H0RTU8  INCLUSU8. 


37 


plenty.  Oli  me,  I wonder,  Susie  dear,  whetlier  you  and  I are 
saints,  or  what  we  are.  You  know  you’re  really  a little  wicked 
sometimes  as  well  as  me,  aren’t  you  ? 

Such  moonlight  as  there  is  to-night,  but  nothing  to  what  it 
is  at  Goniston ! It  makes  the  lagoon  water  look  brown  in- 
stead of  green,  which  I never  noticed  before. 


SAINTS  AND  FLOWERS. 

Venice,  \lth  February. 

It  is  very  grievous  to  me  to  hear  of  your  being  in  that  woful 
weather  while  I have  two  days’  sunshine  out  of  three,  and 
starlight  or  moonlight  always  ; to-day  the  whole  chain  of  the 
Alps  from  Vicenza  to  Trieste  shining  cloudless  all  day  long, 
and  the  seagulls  floating  high  in  the  blue,  like  little  dazzling- 
boys’  kites. 

Yes,  St.  Francis  would  have  been  greatlj^  pleased  with  you 
watching  pussy  drink  your  milk  ; so  would  St.  Theodore,  as 
you  will  see  by  next  Fors,  which  I have  ordered  to  be  sent 
you  in  first  proof,  for  I am  eager  that  you  should  have  it. 
What  wonderful  flowers  these  pinks  of  St.  Ursula’s  are,  for 
life ! They  seem  to  bloom  like  everlastings. 

I get  my  first  rosebud  and  violets  of  this  year  from  St. 
Helena’s  Island  to-day.  How  I begin  to  pit}^  people  who  have 
no  saints  to  be  good  to  them  ! Who  is  yours  at  Goniston  ? 
There  must  have  been  some  in  the  country  once  upon  a time. 

With  their  help  I am  really  getting  well  on  with  my  history 
and  drawing,  and  hope  for  a sweet  time  at  home  in  the  heath- 
ery days,  and  many  a nice  afternoon  tea  at  the  Thwaite. 


Venice,  Qth  March. 

That  is  entirely  new  and  wonderful  to  me  about  the  sing- 
ing mouse. Douglas  (was  it  the  Douglas?)  saying  “he  had 

* A pleasant  story  that  a friend  sent  me  from  France.  The  mouse 
often  came  into  their  sitting-room  and  actually  sang  to  them,  the  notes 
being  a little  like  a canary's. — S.  B, 


38 


H0ETU8  INCLUBU8. 


rather  hear  the  lark  sing  than  the  mouse  squeak  ” needs  re- 
vision. It  is  a marvellous  fact  in  natural  history. 

The  valid  is  singing  a wild  tune  to-night — cannot  be  colder 
on  our  own  heaths — and  the  waves  dash  like  our  Waterhead. 
Oh  me,  whenFm  walking  round  it  again,  how  like  a sad  dream 
all  this  Venice  will  be  I 


Oxford,  2d  Becemher. 

I write  first  to  you  this  morning  to  tell  you  that  I gave  yes- 
terday the  twelfth  and  last  of  my  course  of  lectures  this  term, 
to  a room  crowded  by  six  hundred  people,  two-thirds  members 
of  the  University,  and  with  its  door  wedged  open  by  those 
v/ho  could  not  get  in  ; this  interest  of  theirs  being  granted  to 
me,  I doubt  not,  because  for  the  first  time  in  Oxford,  I have 
been  able  to  speak  to  them  boldly  of  immortal  life.  I intend- 
ed, when  I began  the  course,  only  to  have  read  “ Modern  Paint- 
ers ” to  them  • but  when  I began,  some  of  your  favorite  bits 
interested  the  men  so  much,  and  brought  so  much  larger  a 
proportion  of  undergraduates  than  usual,  that  I took  pains  to 
reinforce  and  press  them  home  ; and  jieople  say  I have  never 
given  so  useful  a course  yet.  But  it  has  taken  all  my  time  and 
strength,  and  I have  not  been  able  even  to  tell  Susie  a word 
about  it  until  now.  In  one  of  my  lectures  I made  my  text  your 
pretty  peacock  and  the  design  * of  him.  But  did  not  venture 
to  say,  what  really  must  be  true,  that  his  voice  is  an  example  of 
“ the  Devil  sow^ed  tares,’’  and  of  the  angels  letting  both  grow 
together.  Joanie  was“wae”to  leave  Brantw’ood  and  you 
(and  betw^een  you  and  me  her  lettei's  have  been  so  dull  ever 
since,  that  I think  she  has  left  her  wits  as  w’ell  as  her  heart  with 
you).  I am  going  to  see  her  on  Monday  week,  the  10th,  and 
shall  start  from  home  about  the  20th,  undertaking  (D.  V.), 
at  all  events,  to  come  on  Christmas  morning  to  your  ever 
kindly  opening  door. 

Love  to  Mary,  and  cousin  Mary  ; how  happy  it  is  for  me 
you  are  all  so  nice  ! 


Decorative  art  of  liis  plumage. 


HORTUS  INCLUSU8. 


39 


My  grateful  compliments  to  the  peacock.  And  little  (but 
warm)  loves  to  all  your  little  birds.  And  best  of  little  loves 
to  the  squirrels,  only  you  must  send  them  in  dream-words,  I 
suppose,  up  to  their  nests. 


Herne  Hill,  Sunday,  \Qth  December. 

It  is  a long  while  since  I’ve  felt  so  good  for  nothing  as  I do 
this  morning.  My  very  wristbands  curl  up  in  a dog’s-eared 
and  disconsolate  manner ; my  little  room  is  all  a heap  of 
disorder.  I’ve  got  a hoarseness  and  wheezing  and  sneezing 
and  coughing  and  choking.  I can’t  speak  and  I can’t  think, 
I’m  miserable  in  bed  and  useless  out  of  it ; and  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I could  never  venture  to  open  a window  or  go  out  of 
a door  any  more.  I have  the  dimmest  sort  of  diabolical 
pleasure  in  thinking  how  miserable  I shall  make  Susie  by  tell- 
ing her  all  this  ; but  in  other  respects  I seem  entirely  devoid 
of  all  moral  sentiments.  I have  arrived  at  this  state  of  things, 
first  by  catching  cold,  and  since  by  trying  to  “amuse  myself” 
for  three  days.  I tried  to  read  “ Pickwick,”  but  found  that 
vulgar,  and,  besides,  I know  it  all  by  heart.  I sent  from  town 
for  some  chivalric  romances,  but  found  them  immeasurably 
stupid.  I made  Baxter  read  me  the  Daily  Telegraph,  and 
found  that  the  Home  Secretary  had  been  making  an  absurd 
speech  about  art,  without  any  consciousness  that  such  a person 
as  I had  ever  existed.  I read  a lot  of  games  of  chess  out 
of  Mr.  Staunton’s  handbook,  and  couldn’t  understand  any  of 
them.  I analyzed  the  Dock  Company’s  bill  of  charges  on  a box 
from  Venice,  and  sent  them  an  examination  paper  on  it.  I 
think  that  did  amuse  me  a little,  but  the  account  doesn’t.  £1  8s. 
Gd.  for  bringing  a box  two  feet  square  from  the  Tower  "Wharf 
to  here  ! But  the  worst  of  all  is,  that  the  doctor  keeps  me 
shut  up  here,  and  I can’t  get  mj^  business  done  ; and  now 
there  isn’t  the  least  chance  of  my  getting  down  to  Brantwood 
for  Christmas,  nor,  as  far  as  I can  see,  for  a fortnight  after 
it.  There’s  perhaps  a little  of  the  diabolical  enjoyment  again 
in  that  estimate ; but  really  the  days  do  go,  more  like  dew 


40 


EOBTUS  INCLU8U8. 


shaken  off  branches  than  real  sunrisings  and  settings.  But 
I’ll  send  you  word  every  day  now  for  a little  while  how  things 
are  going  on. 


Corpus  Christi  College, 
Oxford,  2Qth  December. 

I don’t  know  really  whether  T ought  to  be  at  Brantwood 
or  here  on  Christmas.  Yesterday  I had  two  lovely  services 
in  my  own  cathedral.  You  know  the  cathedral  of  Oxford  is 
the  chapel  of  Christ  Church  College,  and  I have  my  own  high 
seat  in  the  chancel,  as  an  honorary  student,  besides  being 
bred  there,  and  so  one  is  ever  so  proud  and  ever  so  pious  all 
at  once,  which  is  ever  so  nice,  you  know  ; and  my  own  dean, 
that’s  the  Dean  of  Christ’s  Church,  who  is  as  big  as  any 
bishop,  read  the  services,  and  the  psalms  and  anthems  were 
lovely  ; and  then  I dined  with  Henry  Acland  and  his  family, 
where  I am  an  adopted  son — all  the  more  wanted  yesterday 
because  the  favorite  son  Herbert  died  tliis  year  in  Cey- 
lon— tlie  first  death  out  of  seven  sons.  So  they  were  glad  to 
liave  me.  Then  I’ve  all  my  Turners  here,  and  shall  really 
enjoy  myself  a little  to-day,  I think  ; but  I do  wish  I could 
be  at  Brantwood  too. 

Oh  dear,  I’ve  scribbled  this  dreadfully.  Can  you  really 
read  my  scribble,  Susie  ? Love,  you  may  always  read,  how- 
ever scribbled. 


Oxford,  27^/i  Decemhtr. 

Yes,  I really  think  that  must  be  the  way  of  it.  I am  wholly 
cattish  in  that  love  of  teasing.  How  delighted  I used  to  be 
if  Eosie  would  ever  condescend  to  be  the  least  bit  jealous  ! 

By  the  way,  what  a shame  it  is  that  we  keep  that  word 
in  the  second  commandment,  as  if  it  meant  that  God  w’as 
jealous  of  images.  It  means  burning,  zealous  or  full  of  life, 
visiting,  etc.,  i.e.,  necessarily  when  leaving  the  father,  leaving 
the  child  ; necessaril}^  when  giving  the  father  life,  giving  life 
to  the  child,  and  to  thousands  of  the  race  of  them  that  love 
me. 


H0BTU8  INCLU8US. 


41 


It  is  very  comic  the  way  people  have  of  being  so  particular 
about  the  second  and  fourth  commandments,  and  breaking 
all  the  rest  with  the  greatest  comfort.  For  me,  I try  to  keep 
all  the  rest  rather  carefully,  and  let  the  second  and  fourth 
take  care  of  themselves. 

Cold  quite  gone  ; now  it’s  your  turn,  Susie.  Fve  got  a 
love  letter  in  Chinese,  and  can’t  read  it ! 


Windsor  Castle,  2d  January^  1878. 

I’m  horribly  sulky  this  morning,  for  I expected  to  have  a 
room  with  a view,  if  the  room  was  ever  so  little,  and  I’ve  got 
a great  big  one  looking  into  the  Castle  j^ard,  and  I feel  ex- 
actly as  if  I was  in  a big  modern  county  gaol  with  beautiful 
turrets  of  modern  Gothic. 

I came  to  see  Prince  Leopold,  who  has  been  a prisoner  to 
his  sofa  lately,  but  I trust  he  is  better  ; he  is  very  bright  and 
gentle,  under  severe  and  almost  continual  pain.  My  dear 
little  Susie,  about  that  rheumatism  of  3’ours  ? If  it  ^vasn’t 
for  that,  how  happy  we  both  ought  to  be,  living  in  Thwaites 
and  woods,  instead  of  nasty  castles?  Well,  about  that  Shake- 
speare guide  ? I cannot,  cannot,  at  all  fancy  what  it  is.  In 
and  out  among  the  stars  ; it  sounds  like  a plan  for  stringing 
the  stars.  I am  so  very  glad  you  told  me  of  it. 

“ Unwritten  books  in  my  brain  ? ” Yes,  but  also  in  how 
many  other  brains  of  quiet  people,  books  unthought  of,  “ In 
the  Book  and  Volume  ” which  will  be  read  some  day  in 
Heaven,  aloud,  “When  saw  we  thee?”  Yes,  and  “When 
read  we  ourselves  ? ” 

My  dear  Susie,  if  I were  to  think  really  Zos^,  what  you  for 
instance  have  new  found  in  your  own  powers  of  receiving  and 
giving  pleasure,  the  beautiful  faculties  you  have,  scarcely  ven- 
turing even  to  show  the  consciousness  of  them,  when  it 
awakes  in  you,  what  a woful  conception  I should  have  of 
God’s  not  caring  for  us.  He  will  gather  all  the  wheat  into 
His  garner. 


42 


EOBTUS  IN0LU8U8. 


INGLETON,  VUh  January. 

It’s  a charming  post  here,  and  brings  me  my  letters  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning ; and  I took  care  to  tell  nobody 
where  I was  going,  except  people  I wanted  to  hear  from. 
What  a little  busy  bee  of  a Susie  you’ve  been  to  get  all  those 
extracts  ready  by  this  time.  I’ve  got  nothing  done  all  the 
while  I’ve  been  away,  but  a few  mathematical  figures,  and  the 
less  I do  the  less  I find  I can  do  it ; and  yesterday,  for  the 
first  time  these  twenty  years  at -least,  I hadn’t  so  much  as 
a “ plan  ” in  my  head  all  day.  But  I had  a lot  to  look  at  in 
the  moorland  flowers  and  quiet  little  ancient  Yorkshire  farm- 
houses, not  to  speak  bf  Ingleborough,  who  was,  I think,  a lit- 
tle depressed  because  he  knew  you  were  only  going  to  send 
your  remembrances,  and  not  your  love  to  him.  The  clouds 
gathered  on  his  brow  occasionally  in  a fretful  manner,  but 
toward  evening  he  resumed  his  peace  of  mind  and  sends 
you  his  “ remembrances ” and  his  “blessing.”  I believe  he 
saves  both  you  and  me  from  a great  deal  of  east  wind. 

Well,  I’ve  got  a plan  in  my  head  this  morning  for  the  new 
extracts.  Shall  v/e  call  them  “Lapides  (or  “Marmora”) 
Portici ; ” and  put  a little  preface  to  them  about  the  pave- 
ment of  St.  Mark’s  porch  and  its  symbolism  of  what  the  edu- 
cation of  a good  man’s  early  days  must  be  to  him  ? I think 
I can  write  something  a little  true  and  trustworthy  about  it. 
Love  to  Mary  and  singing  little  Joan.  You  are  very  right 
about  it’s  not  being  good  for  me  to  be  alone,  but  I had  some 
nice  little  times  in  London  with  Mary  Gladstone,  or  I shouldn’t 
have  known  what  to  do.  And  now  I’m  coming  home  as  fast 
as  I can. 


26t/i  November. 

I have  entirely  resigned  all  hope  of  ever  thanking  you 
rightly  for  bread,  sweet  odors,  roses  and  pearls,  and  must  just 
allow  myself  to  be  fed,  scented,  rose-garlanded  andbepearled 
as  if  I were  a poor  little  pet  dog  or  pet  pig.  But  my  cold  is 
better,  and  I am  getting  on  with  this  botany  ; but  it  is  really 
loo  important  a work  to  be  pushed  for  a week  or  a fortnight. 
And  Mary  and  you  will  be  pleased  at  last,  I am  sure. 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


43 


I have  only  to-day  got  my  four  families,  Clarissa,  Lychnis, 
Scintilla,  and  Mica,  perfectly  and  simply  defined.  See  how 
nicely  they  come. 

A.  Clarissa  clianged  from  Dianthus,  whicli  is  bad  Greek  (and  all 

my  pretty  flowers  have  names  of  girls).  'PetoX  jagged  at  the 
outside. 

B,  Lychnis.  Petal  divided  in  two  at  the  outside,  and  the  fringe  re- 

tired to  the  top  of  the  limb. 

C,  Scintilla  (changed  from  Stellaria,  because  I want  Stella  for 

the  house  leeks).  Petal  formed  by  the  two  lobes  of  Lychnis 
without  the  retired  fringe. 

D.  Mica.  Single  lobed  petal. 

When  once  these  four  families  are  well  understood  in  typi- 
cal examples,  how  easy  it  will  be  to  attach  either  subordinate 
groups  or  specialties  of  habitat,  as  in  America,  to  some  kinds 
of  them  ! The  entire  order,  for  their  purity  and  wildness,  are 
to  be  named,  from  Artemis,  ‘‘ Artemides,”  instead  of  Caryo- 
phyllaceae ; and  next  them  come  the  Vestals  (mints,  lavenders, 
etc.)  ; and  then  the  Cytheride  Viola,  Veronica,  Giulietta,  the 
last  changed  from  Polygala. 

That  third  herb  Eobert  one  is  just  the  drawing  that  no- 
body but  me  (never  mind  grammar)  could  have  made.  No- 
body ! because  it  means  ever  so  much  careful  watcliing  of  the 
ways  of  the  leaf,  and  a lot  of  work  in  cramp  perspective  be> 
sides.  It  is  not  quite  right  yet,  but  it  is  nice. 


It  is  so  nice  to  be  able  to  find  anything  that  is  in  the  least 
new  to  you,  and  interesting ; my  rocks  are  quite  proud  of 
rooting  that  little  saxifrage. 

Pm  scarcely  able  to  look  at  one  flower  because  of  the  two 
on  each  side,  in  my  garden  just  now.  I want  to  have  bees’ 
eyes,  there  are  so  many  lovely  things. 

I must  tell  you,  interrupting  my  botanical  work  this  morn- 
ing, something  that  has  just  chanced  to  me. 

I am  arranging  the  caryophylls  which  I mass  broadly  into 
“ Clarissa,  ” the  true  jagged-leaved  and  clove-scented  ones  ; 
‘‘Lychnis,  those  whose  leaves  are  essentially  in  two  lobes  ; 


44 


H0BTU8  INCLU8US, 


“ Arenaria,’' which  I leave  untouched;  and  “Mica,”  a new 
name  of  own  for  the  pearlworts,  of  which  the  French  name 
is  to  be  Miette,  and  the  representative  type  (now  Sagina  pro- 
cumbent) is  to  be  in — 

Latin — Mica  arnica. 

French — Miette  I’amie. 

English — Pet  peaiiwort. 

Then  the  next  to  this  is  to  be — 

Latin — Mica  millegrana. 

French — Miette  aux  mille  perles. 

English — Thousand  pearls. 

Now  this  on  the  whole  I consider  the  prettiest  of  the  group, 
and  so  look  for  a plate  of  it  which  I can  copy.  Hunting  all 
through  my  botanical  books,  I find  the  best  of  all  is  Baxter’s 
Oxford  one,  and  determine  at  once  to  engrave  that.  When 
turning  the  page  of  his  text  I find : “ The  specimen  of  this 
curious  and  interesting  little  plant  from  which  the  accompa- 
nying drawing  was  made,  was  communicated  to  me  by  Miss 
Susan  Beever.  To  the  kindness  of  this  young  lady,  and  that 
of  her  sister.  Miss  Mary  Beever,  I am  indebted  for  the  four 
plants  figured  in  this  number.” 

I have  copied  lest  you  should  have  trouble  in  looking  for 
the  book,  but  now,  you  darling  Susie,  please  tell  me  whether 
I may  not  separate  these  lovely  pearlworts  wholly  from  the 
spergulas — by  the  pearlworts  having  only  two  leaves  like  real 
pinks  at  the  joints,  and  the  spergulas,  a cluster  ; and  tell  me 
how  the  spergulas  scatter  their  seeds,  I can’t  find  any  account 
of  it. 


I would  fain  have  come  to  see  that  St.  Bruno  lily ; but  if  I 
don’t  come  to  see  Susie  and  you,  be  sure  I am  able  to  come 
to  see  nothing.  At  present  I am  very  deeply  involved  in  the 
classification  of  the  minerals  in  the  Sheffield  Museum,  impor- 
tant as  the  first  practical  arrangement  ever  yet  attempted  for 
popular  teaching,  and  this  with  my  other  work  makes  me  fit 
for  nothing  in  the  afternoon  but  wood-chopping.  But  I will 
call  to-day  on  Dr.  Brown’s  friends. 


U0ETU8  IKCLUSU8. 


45 


I hope  you  will  not  be  too  much  shocked  with  the  audacities 
of  the  new  number  of  “Proserpina,”  or  Avitli  its  ignorances. 
I am  going  during  my  wood-chopping  really  to  ascertain  in 
my  own  way  what  simple  persons  ought  to  know  about  tree 
growth,  and  give  it  clearly  in  the  next  number.  I ineaiit  to  do 
the  whole  book  very  differently,  but  can  only  now  give  the 
fragmentary  pieces  as  they  chance  to  come,  or  it  would  never 
be  done  at  all. 

You  must  know  before  anybody  else  how  the  exogens  are 
to  be  completely  divided.  I keep  the  four  great  useful 
groups,  mallow,  geranium,  mint,  and  wail-flower,  under  the 
head  of  domestic  orders,  that  their  sweet  service  and  com- 
panionship with  us  may  be  understood  ; then  the  water-lily 
and  the  heath,  both  four  foils,  are  to  be  studied  in  their  soli- 
tudes (I  shall  throw  all  that  are  not  four  foils  out  of  tlie  Eri- 
caceae) ; then  finally  there  are  to  be  seven  orders  of  the  dark 
proserpine,  headed  by  the  draconids  (snapdragons),  and  in- 
cluding the  anemones,  hellebores,  ivies,  and  forget-me-nots. 

What  plants  I cannot  get  arranged  under  these  12-f  4-[-2-f- 
7 = 25  in  all,  orders,  I shall  give  broken  notices  of,  as  I have 
time,  leaving  my  pupils  to  arrange  them  as  they  like.  I can’t 
do  it  all. 

The  whole  household  was  out  after  breakfast  to-day  to  the 
top  of  the  moor  to  plant  cranberries  ; and  wm  squeezed  and 
splashed  and  spluttered  in  the  boggiest  places  the  lovely  sun- 
shine had  left,  till  we  found  places  squashy  and  squeezy 
enough  to  please  the  most  particular  and  coolest  of  cranberry 
minds ; and  then  each  of  us  choosing  a little  special  bed  of 
bog,  the  tufts  were  deeply  put  in  with  every  manner  of  tacit 
benediction,  such  as  might  befit  a bog  and  a beny,  and  many 
an  expressed  thanksgiving  to  Susie  and  to  the  kind  sender  of 
the  luxuriant  plants.  I have  never  had  gift  from  you,  dear 
Susie,  more  truly  interesting  and  gladdening  to  me,  and  many 
a day  I shall  climb  the  moor  to  see  the  fate  of  the  plants  and 
look  across  to  the  Thwaite.  I’ve  been  out  most  of  the  fore- 
noon and  am  too  sleepy  to  shape  letters,  but  will  try  and  get 
a word  of  thanks  to  the  far  finder  of  the  dainty  things  to- 
morrow. 


46 


H0ETU8  INGLUSUB. 


What  loveliness  everywhere  in  a duckling  sort  of  state  just 
now. 

Ne'e  ember. 

We’ve  all  been  counting  and  considering  how  old  you  can 
possibly  be  to-day,  and  have  made  up  our  minds  that  you  are 
really  thirteen,  and  must  begin  to  be  serious.  There  have 
been  some  hints  about  the  necessity  of  sending  you  to  school, 
which  I have  taken  no  notice  of,  hoping  that  you  will  really 
at  last  make  up  your  mind  to  do  your  lessons  at  home  like  a 
dear  good  little  girl  as  yon  are.  And  because  to-day  you 
enter  into  your  “ teens  ” I have  sent  you  a crystal,  and  a little 
bit  of  native  gold,  and  a little  bit  of  native  silver,  for  symbols 
of  this  lovely  “ nativity  ” of  previous  years  ; and  I do  wish 
you  all  love  and  joy  and  peace  in  them. 


TO  MISS  BEEVER. 

20i57i  January.,  1879. 

You  will  not  doubt  the  extreme  sorrow  with  which  I have 
heard  of  all  that  was  ordered  to  be,  of  terrible,  in  your  peace- 
ful and  happy  household.  Without  for  an  instant  supposing, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  utterly  refusing  to  admit,  that  such 
calamities'^  may  be  used  to  point  a moral  (all  useful  morality 
having  every  point  that  God  meant  it  to  have,  perfectly  sharp 
and  bright  without  any  burnishing  of  ours),  still  less  to  adorn 
a tale  (the  tales  of  modern  days  depending  far  too  much  upon 
Scythian  decoration  with  Death’s  heads)  ; I,  yet,  if  I had  been 
Mr.  Chapman,  would  have  pointed  out  that  all  concealments, 
even  of  trivial  matters,  on  the  part  of  young  servants  from 
kind  mistresses,  are  dangerous  no  less  than  unkind  and  un- 
generous, and  tliat  a great  deal  of  preaching  respecting  the 
evil  nature  of  man  and  the  anger  of  God  might  be  spared,  if 
children  and  servants  were  only  taught,  as  a religious  prin- 


* One  of  our  younger  servants  had  gone  on  to  the  frozen  lake  ; the  ice 
gave  way,  and  she  was  drowned. — S.  B. 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


47 


ciple,  to  tell  their  mothers  and  mistresses,  when  they  go  out, 
exactly  where  they  are  going  and  what  they  are  going  to  do. 
I think  both  you  and  Miss  Susan  ought  to  use  every  possible 
means  of  changing,  or  at  least  checking,  the  current  of  such 
thoughts  in  your  minds  ; and  I am  in  hopes  that  you  may  have 
a little  pleasure  in  examining  the  plates  in  the  volume  of  Sib- 
thorpe  s “F.  Graeca”  which  I send  to-day,  in  comparison  with 
those  of  “F.  Danica.”  The  vulgarity  and  lifelessness  of  Sib- 
thorpe  s plates  are  the  more  striking,  because  in  mere  execu- 
tion tliey  are  the  inore  elaborate  of  the  two  ; the  chief  point 
in  the  ‘‘F.  Danica  ” being  the  lovely  artistic  skill.  The  draw- 
ings for  Sibthorpe,  by  a young  German,  were  as  exquisite  as 
the  Danes,  but  the  English  engraver  and  colorist  spoiled  all. 

I will  send  you,  if  you  like  them,  the  other  volumes  in  suc- 
cession. I find  immense  interest  in  comparing  the  Greek 
and  Danish  forms  or  conditions  of  the  same  English  flower. 

I send  the  second  volume,  in  which  the  Rufias  are  lovely, 
and  scarcely  come  under  my  above  condemnation.  The/?’S^ 
is  nearly  all  of  grass. 


Ath  February. 

You  know  I’m  getting  my  Oxford  minerals  gradually  to 
Brantwood,  and  whenever  a box  comes,  I think  whether  there 
are  any  that  I don  t want  myself,  which  might  yet  have  leave 
to  live  on  Susie’s  table.  And  to-day  I’ve  found  a very  soft 
purple  agate,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  nearly  melted  away 
with  pity  for  birds  and  flies,  which  is  like  Susie  ; and  an- 
other piece  of  hard  wooden  agate  with  only  a little  ragged 
sky  of  blue  here  and  there,  which  is  like  me  ; and  a group  of 
crystals  with  grass  of  Epidote  inside,  which  is  like  what  my 
own  little  cascade  has  been  all  the  winter  by  the  garden  side  ; 
and  so  I’ve  had  them  all  packed  up,  and  I hope  you  will  let 
them  live  at  the  Thwaite. 

Then  here  are  some  more  bits,  if  you  will  be  a child. 
Here’s  a green  piece,  long,  of  the  stone  they  cut  those  green, 
weedy  brooches  out  of,  and  a nice  mouse-colored  natural  agate, 


48 


H0BTU8  INGLU8US. 


and  a great  black  and  white  one,  stained  with  sulphuric  acid, 
black,  but  very  fine  always,  and  interesting  in  its  lines. 

Oh,  dear,  the  cold  ; but  it’s  worth  any  cold  to  have  that 
delicious  Kobin  dialogue.  Please  write  some  more  of  it ; 
you  hear  all  they  say,  I’m  sure. 

I cannot  tell  you  how  delighted  I am  with  your  lovely  gift 
to  Joanie.  The  perfection  of  the  stone,  its  exquisite  color, 
and  superb  weight,  and  flawless  clearness,  and  the  delicate 
cutting,  which  makes  the  light  flash  from  it  like  a wave  of 
the  Lake,  make  it  altogether  the  most  perfect  mineralogical 
and  heraldic  jewel  that  Joanie  could  be  bedecked  with,  and 
it  is  as  if  Susie  had  given  her  a piece  of  Coniston  Water  it- 
self. 

And  the  setting  is  delicious,  and  positively  must  not  be 
altered.  I shall  come  on  Sunday  to  thank  you  myself  for 
it.  Meantime  I’m  working  hard  at  the  Psalter,  which  I am 
almost  sure  Susie  will  like. 


25^^  May, 

This  is  a most  wonderful  stone  that  Dr.  Kendall  has  found 
— at  least  to  me.  I have  never  seen  anything  quite  like  it, 
the  arborescent  forms  of  the  central  thread  of  iron  being 
hardly  ever  assumed  by  an  ore  of  so  much  metallic  lustre.  I 
think  it  would  be  very  desirable  to  cut  it,  so  as  to  get  a per- 
fectly smooth  surface  to  show  the  arborescent  forms  ; if  Dr. 
Kendall  would  like  to  have  it  done,  I can  easily  send  it  uj)  to 
London  with  my  own  next  parcel. 

I want  very  much  to  know  exactly  where  it  was  found  ; 
might  I come  and  ask  about  it  on  Dr.  Kendall’s  next  visit  to 
you  ? I could  be  there  waiting  for  him  any  day. 

I am  thinking  greatly  of  our  George  Herbert,  but  me's  so 
wicked  I don’t  know  where  to  begin. 

But  I never  have  had  nicer  letters  “ since  first  I saw  your 
face  ” and  tried  to  honor  and  reverence  you. 

Violet’s  better,  and  I’m  pretty  well,  but  have  a little  too 
much  thinking  of  old  days. 


IIORTUS  INCLU8U8. 


49 


Have  you  any  word  of  the  Collies  lately  ? I keep  sending 
stones  and  books  ; they  answer  not.  It  is  delightful  of  you 
to  be  interested  in  that  stone  book.  I send  you  one  of  my 
pictures  of  stones.  They’re  not  very  like,  but  they’re  prett}\ 
I wish  they  did  such  pictures  now. 

What  lovely  pies  (pictures?)  3'ou  would  have  made,  in  the 
old  butterfly  times,  of  opal  and  felspar  ! W^hat  lost  creat- 
ures we  all  are,  we  nice  ones ! The  Alps  and  clouds  that  1 
could  have  done,  if  I had  been  shown  how. 


June. 

Everybody’s  gone  ! and  I have  all  the  new  potatoes,  and  all 
the  asparagus,  and  all  the  oranges  and  everything,  and  my 
Susie  too,  all  to  myself. 

I wrote  in  my  diary  this  morning  that  really  on  the  whole 
I never  felt  better  in  my  life.  Mouth,  eyes,  head,  feet,  and 
fingers  all  fairly  in  trim  ; older  than  they  were,  yes,  but  if 
the  head  and  heart  grow  wiser,  they  won’t  want  feet  or 
fingers  some  day. 

Indeed  that  is  too  sad  about  Florence.  I’ve  written  a line 
to  her  by  this  post,  and  will  do  all  the  little  I can  to  cheer 
her. 

And  I’ll  come  to  be  cheered  and  scolded  myself  the 
moment  I’ve  got  things  a little  to  rights  here.  I think  imps 
get  into  the  shelves  and  drawers,  if  the}^’re  kept  long  locked, 
and  must  be  caught  like  mice.  The  bo^'S  have  been  very 
good,  and  left  everything  untouched  but  the  imps  ; and  to 
hear  people  say  there  aren’t  any ! How  happy  you  and  I 
should  always  be  if  it  weren’t  for  them  ! But  we’re  both  so 
naughty  we  can’t  expect  them  to  let  us  alone.  Can  we  ? 

How  gay  you  were  and  how  you  cheered  me  up  after  the 
dark  lake. 

Please  say  “John  Inglesant”  is  harder  than  real  history 
and  of  no  mortal  use.  I couldn’t  read  four  pages  of  it. 
Clever,  of  course. 

4 


50 


H0BTU8  INGLU8US. 


Herne  Hill,  lUTi  August^  1880. 

I’ve  just  finished  my  Scott  paper,  but  it  has  retouchings 
and  notings  yet  to  do.  I couldn’t  write  a word  before  ; 
haven’t  so  much  as  a syllable  to  Diddie,  and  only  a move  at 
chess  to  Macdonald,  for  you  know,  to  keep  a chess-player 
waiting  for  a move  is  like  keeping  St.  Lawrence  unturned. 

August^  1880. 

I’m  leaving  to-day  for  Dover,  and  a line  from  you  to-morrow 
or  Monday  would  find  me  certainly  at  Poste  Kestante,  Abbe- 
ville, and  please,  please  tell  me  the  funny  thing  Miss 

said. 

I have  not  been  working  at  all,  but  enjoying  myself 
(only  that  takes  up  time  all  the  same)  at  Crystal  Palace 
concerts,  and  jugglings,  and  at  Zoological  Gardens,  where  I 
had  a snake  seven  feet  long  to  play  with,  only  I hadn’t  much 
time  to  make  friends,  and  it  rather  wanted  to  get  away  all 
the  time.  And  I gave  the  hippopotamus  whole  buns,  and  he 
was  delighted,  and  saw  the  cormorant  catch  fish  thrown  to 
him  six  yards  off ; never  missed  one  ; you  would  have  thought 
the  fish  ran  along  a wire  up  to  him  and  down  his  throat. 
And  I saw  the  penguin  swim  under  water,  and  the  sea-lions 
sit  up,  four  of  them  on  four  wooden  chairs,  and  catch  fish 
also  ; but  they  missed  sometimes  and  had  to  fioj3  off’  their 
chairs  into  the  water,  and  then  flop  out'  again  and  flop  up 
again. 

And  I lunched  with  Cardinal  Manning,  and  he  gave  me 
such  a plum  pie.  I never  tasted  a Protestant  pie  to  touch  it. 


Now  you’re  just  wrong  about  my  darling  Cardinal.  See 
what  it  is  to  be  jealous ! He  gave  me  lovely  soup,  roast 
beef,  hare  and  currant  jelly,  puff  pastry  like  Papal  preten- 
sions— you  had  but  to  breathe  on  it  and  it  w^as  nowhere — 
raisins  and  almonds,  and  those  lovely  preserved  cherries  like 


nORTUS  INGLU8US. 


51 


kisses  kept  iu  amber.  And  told  me  delicious  stories  all 
through  lunch.  There! 

And  we  really  do  see  the  sun  here ! And  last  night  the 
sky  was  all  a spangle  and  delicate  glitter  of  stars,  the  glare  of 
them  and  spikiness  softened  off  by  a young  darling  of  a 
moon. 

And  I’m  having  rather  a time  of  it  in  boudoirs,  turned  into 
smiling  instead  of  pouting  service.  But  I’m  not  going  to 
stay  over  my  three  weeks.  How  nice  that  you  can  and  will 
walk  round  the  dining-room  for  exercise  ! 


Calais,  Aufjust. 

I’m  not  very  far  away  yet,  you  see.  I stayed  here  for 
auld  lang  syne,  but  with  endless  sorrow,  of  which  I need  not 
give  you  any  part  of  the  burden. 

The  sea  has  been  beautiful,  and  I am  better  for  the  great 
rest  and  change. 

Amiens,  29^7a  Augmt. 

You  have  been  made  happy  doubtless  with  us  by  the  news 
from  Herne  Hill.  I’ve  only  a telegram  yet  though,  but  write 
at  once  to  congratulate  you  on  your  little  goddaughter. 

Also  to  say  that  I am  very  well,  and  sadly  longing  for 
Brantwood  ; but  that  lam  glad  to  see  some  vestige  of  beloved 
things  here,  once  more. 

We  have  glorious  weather,  and  I am  getting  perfect  rest 
most  of  the  day — mere  saunter  in  the  sunny  air,  taking  all  the 
good  I can  of  it.  To-morrow  we  get  (H.  V.)  to  Beauvais, 
where  perhaps  I may  find  a letter  from  Susie  ; in  any  case 
you  may  write  to  Hotel  IMeurice,  Paris. 

The  oleanders  are  coming  out  and  geraniums  in  all  cottage 
windows,  and  golden  corn  like  Etruscan  jewelry  over  all  the 
fields. 

Beauvais,  3cZ  September. 

We  are  having  the  most  perfect  weather  I ever  saw  in 
France,  much  less  anywhere  else,  and  I’m  taking  a thorough 


52 


H0RTU8  INGLU8U8. 


rest,  writing  scarcely  anything  and  sauntering  about  old  town 
streets  all  day. 

I made  a little  sketch  of  the  lake  from  above  the  Waterhead 
which  goes  everywhere  with  me,  and  it  is  so  curious  when  the 
wind  blows  the  leaf  open  when  I am  sketching  here  at  Beau- 
vais, where  all  is  so  differently  delightful,  as  if  we  were  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world. 

I think  I shall  be  able  to  write  some  passages  about  archi- 
tecture yet,  which  Susie  will  like.  I hear  of  countless 
qualities  being  discovered  in  the  new  little  Susie  ! And  all 
things  will  be  happy  for  me  if  you  send  me  a line  to  Hotel 
Meurice,  saying  you  are  happy  too. 


Pakis,  Ath  8eptemher. 

I have  all  your  letters,  and  rejoice  in  them  ; though  it  is  a 
little  sadder  for  you  looking  at  empty  Brantwood,  than  for  me 
to  fancy  the  bright  full  Thwaite,  and  then  it’s  a great  shame 
that  I’ve  everything  to  amuse  me,  and  lovely  Louvres  and 
shops  and  cathedrals  and  coquettes  and  pictures  and  plays 
and  prettinesses  of  every  color  and  quality,  and  you’ve  only 
your  old,  old  hills  and  quiet  lake.  Very  thankful  I shall  be 
to  get  back  to  them,  though. 

We  have  finished  our  Paris  this  afternoon,  and  hope  to 
leave  for  Chartres  on  Monday. 


Hotel  de  Meurice,  Parts,  Uh  8eptember. 

Is  it  such  pain  to  you  when  people  say  what  they  ought  not 
to  say  about  me  ? But  when  do  they  say  what  they  ought  to 
say  about  anything  ? Nearly  everything  I have  ever  done  or 
said  is  as  much  above  the  present  level  of  public  understand- 
ing as  the  Old  Man  is  above  the  Waterhead. 

We  have  had  the  most  marvellous  weather  thus  far,  and 
have  seen  Paris  better  than  ever  I’ve  seen  it  yet— and  to-day  at 
the  Louvre  we  saw  the  Casette  of  St.  Louis,  the  Coffre  of 
Anne  of  Austria,  the  porphyry  vase,  made  into  an  eagle,  of  an 


HORTUa  INCLU8U8. 


53 


okl  Abbe  Segur,  or  some  such  name.  All  these  you  can  see 
also,  you  know,  in  those  lovely  photographs  of  Miss  Eigb}’^e’s, 
if  you  can  only  make  out  in  this  vile  writing  of  mine  what  I 
mean. 

But  it  is  so  hot.  I can  scarcely  sit  up  or  hold  the  pen,  but 
tumble  back  into  the  chair  every  half-minute  and  unbutton 
anotlier  button  of  waistcoat,  and  gasp  a little,  and  nod  a little, 
and  wink  a little,  and  sprinkle  some  eau  de  Cologne  a little, 
and  try  a little  to  write  a little,  and  forget  what  I had  to  say, 
and  where  I was,  and  whether  it’s  Susie  or  Joan  I’m  writing 
to  ; and  then  I see  some  letters  I’ve  never  opened  that  came 
by  this  morning’s  post,  and  think  I’d  better  open  them  per- 
haps ; and  here  I find  in  one  of  them  a delightful  account  of 
the  quarrel  that  goes  on  in  this  weather  between  the  nicest 
elephant  in  the  Zoo’  and  his  keeper,  because  he  won’t  come 
out  of  his  bath.  I saw  them  at  it  myself,  when  I was  in 
London,  and  saw  the  elephant  take  up  a stone  and  throw  it  hard 
against  a door  which  the  keeper  was  behind — but  my  friend 
writes,  I must  believe  from  what  I saw  that  the  elephant 
knew  he  would  injure  the  man  with  the  stones,  for  he  threw 
them  hard  to  the  side  of  him,  and  then  stood  his  ground ; 
when,  however,  he  threw  water  and  wetted  the  man,  he 
plunged  into  the  bath  to  avoid  the  whip  ; not  fearing  punish- 
ment when  he  merely  showed  what  he  could  do  and  did  not.” 

The  throwing  the  stone  hard  at  the  door  when  the  keeper 
was  on  the  other  side  of  it,  must  have  been  great  fun  for  him  ! 

I am  so  sorry  to  have  crushed  this  enclosed  scrawl.  It  has 
been  carried  about  in  my  pocket  to  be  finished,  and  I see 
there’s  no  room  for  the  least  bit  of  love  at  the  bottom.  So 
here’s  a leaf  full  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which  is  very 
lovely  ; and  we  drive  about  by  night  or  day,  as  if  all  the  sky 
were  only  the  roof  of  a sapphire  palace  set  with  'warm  stars. 


Chahtiies,  dtth  Septemher. 

{Hotel  dll  Grand  Morutrqne. ) 

I suppose  Vm  the  grand  Monarque  ! I don’t  know  of  any 
other  going  just  now,  but  I don’t  feel  quite  the  right  thing 


54 


H0RTU8  INGLU8US. 


without  a wig.  Anyhow,  I’m  having  everything  my  own  way 
just  now — weather,  dinner,  news  from  Joanie  and  news  from 
Susie,  only  I don’t  like  her  to  be  so  very,  very  sad,  though  it 
is  nice  to  be  missed  so  tenderly.  But  I do  hope  you  will  like 
to  think  of  my  getting  some  joy  in  old  ways  again,  and  once 
more  exploring  old  streets  and  finding  forgotten  churches. 

The  sunshine  is  life  and  health  to  me,  and  I am  gaining 
knowledge  faster  than  ever  I could  when  I was  young. 

This  is  just  to  say  where  I am,  and  that  you  might  know 
where  to  write. 

The  cathedral  here  is  the  grandest  in  France,  and  I stay  a 
week  at  least. 


Chartres,  13^/i  8eptember. 

I must  be  back  in  England  by  the  1st  October,  and  by  the 
10th  shall  be  myself  ready  to  start  for  Brantwood,  but  may 
perhaps  stay,  if  Joanie  is  not  ready,  till  she  can  come  too. 
Anyway,  I trust  very  earnestly  to  be  safe  in  the  shelter  of  my 
own  woodside  by  the  end  of  October.  I wonder  what  you 
will  say  of  my  account  of  the  Five  Lovers  of  Nature*  and  se- 
clusion in  the  last  Nineteenth  Century. 

I am  a little  ashamed  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  my  sublimely 
savage  temperament,  I take  a good  deal  more  pleasure  in 
Paris  than  of  old,  and  am  even  going  back  there  on  Friday 
for  three  more  daj^s. 

We  find  the  people  here  very  amiable,  and  the  French  old 
character  unchanged.  The  perfect  cleanliness  and  unrufiied- 
ness  of  white  cap  is  alwaj^s  a marvel,  and  the  market  groups 
exquisite,  but  our  enjoyment  of  the  fair  is  subdued  by  pity 
for  a dutiful  dog,  who  turns  a large  wheel  (by  walking  up  it 
inside)  the  whole  afternoon,  producing  awful  sounds  out  of  a 
huge  grinding  organ,  of  which  his  wheel  and  he  are  the  un- 
fortunate instruments.  Him  we  love,  his  wheel  we  hate  ! and 
in  general  all  French  musical  instruments.  I have  become 
quite  sure  of  one  thing  on  this  journey,  that  the  French  of 


* Rousseau,  Shelley,  Byron,  Turner,  and  John  Ruskin. 


HOU  T IKCL 


55 


to-day  have  no  sense  of  harniony,  but  only  of  more  or  less 
lively  tune,  and  even,  for  a time,  will  be  content  with  any 
kind  of  clash  or  din  produced  in  time. 

The  Cathedral  service  is,  however,  still  impressive. 


liUh  FeJrnmry^  1881. 

I’ve  much  to  tell  you  “ to-day  of  answer  to  those  prayers 
you  prayed  for  me.  But  you  must  be  told  it  by  our  good 
angels,  for  your  eyes  must  not  be  worn.  God  willing,  you 
shall  see  men  as  trees  walking  in  the  garden  of  God,  on  this 
pretty  Coniston  earth  of  ours.  Don’t  be  afraid,  and  please  be 
happy,  for  I can’t  be,  if  you  are  not.  Love  to  Mary,  to  Miss 
Bigbye,  and  my  ov/n  St.  Ursula,!  and  mind  you  give  the 
messages  to  all  three,  hearlihj. 


22(?  April. 

I’m  not  able  to  scratch  or  fight  to-day,  or  I wouldn’t  let 
you  cover  me  up  with  this  heap  of  gold  ; but  I’ve  got  a rheu- 
matic creak  in  my  neck,  which  makes  me  jjhysically  stiff  and 
morally  supple  and  unprincipled,  so  I’ve  put  two  pounds  six- 
teen in  my  own  “till,”  where  it  just  fills  up  some  lowering  of 
the  tide  lately  by  German  bands  and  the  like  ; and  I’ve  put 
ten  pounds  aside  for  Sheffield  Museum,  now  in  instant  men- 
dicity ; and  I’ve  put  ten  pounds  aside  till  you  and  I can  have 
a talk  and  you  bo  made  reasonable,  after  being  scolded  and 
scratched  ; after  which,  on  your  promise  to  keep  to  our  old 
bargain  and  enjoy  spending  your  little  “Frondes”  income. 
I’ll  be  your  lovingest  again.  And  for  the  two  pounds  ten, 
and  the  ten,  I am  really  most  heartily  grateful,  meaning  as 
they  do  so  much  that  is  delightful  for  both  of  us  in  the  good 
done  by  this  work  of  yours. 

I send  you  Spenser  ; perhaj^s  you  had  better  begin  with 


* Tlie  motto  on  Mr.  Raskin’s  seal.  See  Frseterita,  Vol.  II.,  p.  28G. 
f Pliotograph  of  Carpaccio’s. 


5G 


H0BTU8  INCLU8US. 


the  Hymn  to  Beauty,  page  39,  and  then  go  on  to  the  Tears  ; 
but  you’ll  see  how  you  like  it.  It’s  better  than  Longfellow  ; 
see  line  52 

“The  house  of  blessed  gods  which  men  call  skye.” 

Now  I’m  going  to  look  out  Dr.  Kendall’s  crystal.  It  must 
be  crystal,*  for  having  brought  back  the  light  to  your  eyes. 


12^7i  July. 

How  delightful  that  you  have  that  nice  Mrs.  Howard  to 
hear  you  say  “The  Ode  to  Beaut}^”  and  how  nice  that  you 
can  learn  it  and  enjoy  saying  it ! 'j*  I do  not  know  it  myself. 
I only  know  that  it  should  be  known  and  said  and  heard  and 
loved. 

I am  often  near  you  in  thought,  but  can’t  get  over  the  lake, 
somehow.  There’s  always  somebody  to  be  looked  after  here, 
now.  I’ve  to  rout  the  gardeners  out  of  the  greenhouse,  or  I 
should  never  have  a strawberry  or  a pink,  but  only  nasty 
gloxinias  and  glaring  fuchsias  ; and  I’ve  been  giving  lessons  to 
dozens  of  people,  and  writing  charming  sermons  in  the 
“ Bible  of  Amiens  ; ” but  I get  so  sleepy  in  the  afternoon,  I 
can’t  pull  myself  over  it. 

I was  looking  at  your  notes  on  birds,  yesterday.  How 
sweet  they  are  ! But  I can’t  forgive  that  young  blackbird  for 
getting  wild  again. 


Last  day  of  1881.  And  the  last  letter 
I write  on  it^  with  new  pen. 

I’ve  lunched  on  your  oysters,  and  am  feasting  eyes  and 
mind  on  your  birds. 

What  birds  ? 


* For  a present  to  Dr.  Kendall. 

I I learned  tlie  whole  of  it  by  heart,  and  could  then  sa}*^  it  without  a 
break.  I have  always  loved  it,  and  in  return  it  has  helped  me  through 
many  a long  and  sleepless  night. — S.  B. 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


57 


w Inrsn\r9  Ygs  I supposG,  aiid  iiGver  bcforG  noticed  tlie 
toll,  ‘^'“1  o starligUt,  iiiKl  wooda  and 

r“=; 

coming  year. 

Easter  Day,  1882. 

I have  had  a liappy  Easter  morning, 

ri;r/rr.:t.s;ridr:f : 

have  known  without  lessoning ; but  I Ua.e  learnt  d,  from 
these  repeated  dreams  and  fantasies,  that 

“ t’  etryS"^^^  aX  "as^h“e  iLble 

arpossihle-  but  people  re.H  take  it,  you  know,  sometnnes, 
even  when  I don’t  give  it,  and  there’s  a great  fuss  about  me 

L%^trrrror„rr.;:^^ 

danger,  I think  one  runs  more  risks  in  a single  railway  jouiney 
tlian  in  the  sicknesses  of  a whole  year. 


8th  June. 

You  write  as  well  as  ever,  and  the  eyes  must  surely  be 
better,  and  it  was  a joyful  amazement  to  “®  ° , ^ ‘ 

Mary  was  able  to  read  and  could  eu3oy  my  ch  ds  botany. 
You  always  have  things  before  other  people;  will  you  please 


58 


H0RTU8  1NGLU8U8. 


send  me  some  rosemary  and  lavender  as  soon  as  they  are  out? 
I am  busy  on  the  Labiatse,  and  a good  deal  bothered.  Also 
St,  Benedict,  whom  I shall  get  done  with  long  before  I’ve 
made  out  the  nettles  he  rolled  in. 

I’m  sure  I ought  to  roll  myself  in  nettles,  burdocks,  and 
blackthorn,  for  here  in  London  I can’t  really  think  now  of 
anything  but  flirting,  and  I’m  only  much  the  worse  for  it 
afterward. 

And  I’m  generally  wicked  and  weary,  like  the  people  who 
ought  to  be  put  to  rest.  But  you’d  miss  me,  and  so  would 
Joanie  ; so  I suppose  I shall  be  let  stay  a little  while  longer. 


Sallenches,  Savoy,  IWi  8e'ptemler. 

I saw  Mont  Blanc  again  to-day,  unseen  since  1877  ; and  was 
very  thankful.  It  is  a sight  tliat  always  redeems  me  to  what 
I am  capable  of  at  my  poor  little  best,  and  to  what  loves  and 
memories  are  most  precious  to  me.  So  I write  to  yon,  one  of 
the  few  true  loves  left.  The  snow  has  fallen  fresh  on  the 
hills,  and  it  makes  me  feel  that  I must  soon  be  seeking- 
shelter  at  Brantwood  and  the  Thwaite. 


Genoa,  Sunday,  September. 

I got  your  delightful  note  yesterday  at  Turin,  and  it  made 
me  wish  to  run  back  through  the  tunnel  directly  instead  of 
coming  on  here.  But  I had  a wonderful  day,  the  Alps  clear 
all  the  morning  all  round  Italy — two  hundred  miles  of  them  ; 
and  then  in  the  afternoon  blue  -waves  of  the  Gulf  of  Genoa 
breaking  like  blue  clouds,  thunder-clouds,  under  groves  of 
olive  and  palm.  But  I washed  they  were  my  sparkling  waves 
of  Coniston  instead,  when  I read  your  letter  again. 

What  a gay  Susie,  receiving  all  the  w-orld,  like  a Queen 
Susan  (how  odd  one  has  never  hekrd  of  a Queen  Susan  !),  only 
you  are  so  naughty,  and  you  never  do  tell  me  of  any  of  those 
nice  girls  when  they’re  coming,  but  only  when  they’re  gone, 
and  I never  shall  get  glimpse  of  them  as  long  as  I live. 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS.  59 

But  you  know  you  really  represent  the  entire  Euskin 
school  of  the  Lake  Country,  and  I think  these  levees  of  yours 
must  be  very  amusing  and  enchanting  ; but  it’s  very  dear  and 
good  of  you  to  let  the  people  come  and  enjoy  themselves,  and 
how  really  well  and  strong  you  must  be  to  be  able  for  it. 

I am  very  glad  to  hear  of  those  sweet,  shy  girls,  poor 
things.^  I suppose  the  sister  they  are  now  anxious  about  is 
the  one  that  would  live  by  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Lake,  and  study  Emerson  and  aspire  to  Buddhism. 

I’m  trying  to  put  my  own  poor  little  fragmentary  Ism  into 
a rather  more  connected  form  of  imagery.  I’ve  never  quite 
set  myself  up  enough  to  impress  some  people  ; and  I’ve 
written  so  much  that  I can’t  quite  make  out  what  I am  my- 
self, nor  what  it  all  comes  to. 


lOth  Junuary^  1883. 

I cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  and  glad  I am,  to  have  your 
lovely  note  and  to  know  that  the  Bewick  gave  you  pleasure, 
and  that  you  are  so  entirely  well  now,  as  to  enjoy  anything 
requiring  so  much  energy  and  attention  to  this  degree.  For 
indeed  I can  scarcely  now  take  pleasure  myself  in  things  that 
give  me  the  least  trouble  to  look  at,  but  I know  that  the 
pretty  book  and  its  chosen  woodcuts  ought  to  be  sent  to  you, 
first  of  all  my  friends  (I  have  not  yet  thought  of  sending  it  to 
anyone  else),  and  I am  quite  put  in  heart  after  a very  despon- 
dent yesterday,  past  inanely,  in  thinking  of  what  / couldn't  do, 
by  feeling  what  you  can,  and  hoping  to  share  the  happy 
Christmas  time  with  you  and  Susie  in  future  years.  Will  j^ou 
please  tell  my  dear  Susie  I’m  going  to  bring  over  a drawing 
to  show  ! (so  thankful  that  I am  still  able  to  draw  after  these 
strange  and  terrible  illnesses)  this  afternoon.  I am  in  hopes  it 
may  clear,  but  dark  or  bright  I’m  coming,  about  half-past 
three,  and  am  ever  your  and  her  most  affectionate  and  faithful 
servant. 


* Florenee;  Alice,  and  May  Bennett,  Florence  is  gone.  Alice  and. 
May  still  sometimes  at  Coniston,  D.  G.  (Marcli,  1887). 


60 


HORTUS  INGLU8US. 


2Uh  Sepiembery  1884. 

I wandered  literally  “up  and  down”  your  mountain 
garden — (how  beautifully  the  native  rocks  slope  to  its  paths 
in  the  sweet  evening  light,  Susiesque  light !) — with  great 
happiness  and  admiration,  as  I went  home,  and  I came  indeed 
upon  what  I conceived  to  be — discovered  in  the  course  of 
recent  excavations — two  deeply  interesting  thrones  of  the 
ancient  Abbots  of  Furness,  typifying  their  humility  in  that 
the  seats  thereof  were  only  level  w'ith  the  ground  between  two 
clusters  of  the  earth  ; contemplating  cyclamen,  and  their 
severity  of  penance,  in  the  points  of  stone  prepared  for  the 
mortification  of  their  backs  ; but  truly,  Susie’s  seat  of  repose 
and  meditation  I was  unable  as  yet  to  discern,  but  propose  to 
myself  further  investigation  of  that  apple-perfumed  paradise, 
and  am  ever  your  devoted  and  enchanted. 


December. 

I gave  my  fourteenth,  and  last  for  this  year,  lecture  this 
afternoon  with  vigor  and  effect,  and  am  safe  and  well  (D.  G.), 
after  such  a spell  of  work  as  I never  did  before.  I have  been 
thrown  a week  out  in  all  my  plans,  by  having  to  write  two  new 
Lectures,  instead  of  those  the  University  was  frightened  at. 
The  scientists  slink  out  of  my  way  now,  as  if  I was  a mad  dog, 
for  I let  them  have  it  hot  and  heavy  whenever  I’ve  a chance 
at  them. 

But  as  I said,  I’m  a week  late,  and  though  I start  for  the 
North  this  day  week,  I can’t  get  home  till  this  day  fortnight  at 
soonest,  but  I hope  not  later  than  to-morrow  fortnight.  Very 
thankful  I shall  be  to  find  myself  again  at  the  little  room  door. 

Fancy  Mary  Gladstone  forgiving  me  even  that  second 
naughtiness ! She’s  going  to  let  me  come  to  see  her  this 
week,  and  to  play  to  me,  which  is  a great  comfort. 


St.  Susie,  November ^ 1885. 

Behold  Athena  and  Apollo  both  come  to  bless  you  on  your 
birthday,  and  all  the  buds  of  the  year  to  come,  rejoice  with 


HOBTUS  INCLU8U8. 


61 


yon,  and  your  poor  cat  is  able  to  purr  again,  and  is  extremely 
comfortable  and  even  cheerful  “ to-day.”  And  we  will  make 
more  and  more  of  the  days,  won’t  we,  and  we  will  burn  our 
candle  at  both  beginnings  instead  of  both  ends,  every  day 
beginning  two  worlds — the  old  one  to  be  lived  over  again, 
the  new  to  learn  our  golden  letters  in.  Not  that  I mean  to 
write  books  in  that  world.  I hope  to  be  set  to  do  something, 
there  ; and  what  lovely  “ receptions  ” you  will  have  in  your 
little  heavenly  Thwaite,  and  celestial  teas.  And  you  won’t 
spoil  the  cream  with  hot  water,  will  you,  any  more  ? 

The  whole  village  is  enjoying  itself,  I hear,  and  the  widows 
and  orphans  to  be  much  the  better  for  it,  and  altogether,  you 
and  I have  a jolly  time  of  it,  haven’t  we  ? 


20th  Februaryy  1886. 

I haven’t  had  anything  nice  to  send  you  this  ever  so  long, 
but  here’s  a little  bird’s  nest  f)f  native  silver  which  you  could 
almost  live  in  as  comfortabl;^  as  a tit.  It  will  stand  nicely 
on  your  table  without  upsetting,  and  is  so  comfortable  to 
hold,  and  altogether  I’m  pleased  to  have  got  it  for  you. 


Isi  March. 

Yes,  I knew  you  would  like  that  silver  shrine  ! and  it  is  an 
extremely  rare  and  perfect  specimen.  But  you  need  not  be 
afraid  in  handling  it  ; if  the  little  bit  of  spar  does  come  off 
it,  or  out  of  it,  no  matter. 

But  of  course  nobody  else  should  touch  it,  till  you  give 
them  leave,  and  show  them  how. 

I am  sorry  for  poor  Miss  Brown,  and  for  your  not  having 
known  the  Doctor.  He  should  have  come  here  when  I told 
him.  I believe  he  would  have  been  alive  yet,  and  I never 
should  have  been  ill. 


*J.  R. 


62 


IIOETUS  INGLUSUS. 


I believe  you  know  more  Latin  than  I do,  and  can  certainly 
make  more  delightful  use  of  it. 

Your  mornings’  ministry  to  the  birds  must  be  remembered 
for  you  by  the  angels  who  paint  their  feathers.  They  will 
all,  one  day,  be  birds  of  Paradise,  and  say,  when  the  adverse 
angel  accuses  you  of  being  naughty  to  some  people,  ‘‘  But  we 
were  hungry  and  she  gave  us  corn,  and  took  care  that  nobody 
else  ate  it.” 

I am  indeed  thankful  you  are  better.  But  you  must  please 
tell  me  what  the  thing  was  I said  w^hich  gave  you  so  much 
pain.  Do  you  recollect  also  what  the  little  bit  in  “ Proser- 
pina ” was  that  said  so  much  to  you  ? Were  you  not  think- 
ing of  “Fors?” 

I am  very  thankful  for  all  your  dear  letters  always — greatly 
delighted  above  all  with  the  squirrel  one,  and  Chaucer. 
Didn’t  he  love  squirrels  ! and  don’t  I wish  I was  a squirrel  in 
Susie’s  pear-trees,  instead  of  a hobbling  disconsolate  old  man, 
with  no  teeth  to  bite,  much  less  crack,  anything,  and  particu- 
larly forbidden  to  eat  nuts  ! 


Your  precious  letter,  showing  me  you  are  a little  better, 
came  this  morning,  with  the  exquisite  feathers,  one,  darkef 
and  lovelier  than  any  I have  seen,  but  please,  I still  want  one 
not  ill  the  least  flattened  ; all  these  have  lost  just  the  least 
bit  of  their  shell-like  bending.  You  can  so  easily  devise  a 
little  padding  to  keep  two  strong  cards  or  bits  of  wood  sepa- 
ate  for  one  or  two  to  lie  happily  in.  I don’t  mind  giving  you 
this  tease,  for  the  throat  will  be  better  the  less  you  remember 
it.  But  for  all  of  us,  a dark  sky  is  assuredly  a poisonous 
and  depressing  power,  which  neither  surgery  nor  medicine 
can  resist.  The  difference  to  me  between  nature  as  she  is 
now,  and  as  she  was  ten  years  ago,  is  as  great  as  between 
Lapland  and  Italy,  and  the  total  loss  of  comfort  in  morning 
and  evening  sky,  the  most  difficult  to  resist  of  all  spiritual 
hostility. 


houtus  mcLusus. 


63 


TT71  i IsiMa^,  1886. 

VVliat  lovely  letters  you  are  writiuo-  me  ius<-  now  e 

my  not  having  said  any  pvetty  things  of  yiu  for  a long 
you  know  perlectly  that  lam  sayino-  them  in  mv 

J»  (lo  look  .t  if,  1„  M oil  “f 

Of  shells,  in  a shell,  as  if  in  a pot  I ^ ^ ^ 

and'n/^‘'“i’  youfora  1%-day  gift,  with  all  loving  May  June 
a.  d December,  and  January  wishes,  such  a pretry  gre  raS 

»r:,r,ri.r;s.r”- 

caf  “ “*  ’"f  ‘ your  curled  up  old 

cat.  I shall  come  out  of  curl  and  get  frisky  when  the 

hyacinths  come  out.  Telegram  just  come  from  Ireknd 
ose  queen  elected  ; sweetly  pretty,  and  all  most  happy.” 


ne  kLi  ^2d  Map,  1886. 

Of  course  the  little  pyramid  in  crystal  is  a present.  Win, 
that  enjoyment  of  Pinkerton,*  you  will  have  mn'te 
doors  interest,  whatever  the  rain  may  1 " 

111110^'']  you  asked  me  what  basalt  was ! How 

much  has  come  out  of  it  (written  in  fallino-  asleeni  9 r 

been  out  all  the  morning  and  am  so  sleepy.  ° ^ ' 

But  I’ve  written  a nice  little  bit  of  “ Praiterit-i  ” b„fo.  r 

Susie  will  like  it,  if  nobody  else.  ^ ^ 

„ f"joyiuS  the  beauty  of  things ’’goes  ever  so 

much  deeper  than  mere  blindness.  It  is  a foruf  of  antao-on 
mm,  and  is  essentially  Satanic.  A most  strange  form  of 

n good  people  ? You  know  ice  are  not  good  at  all,  are  we, 

vof,  “iC‘%  IVe  sen* 

you  a bit  enclosed  with  some  jealous  spots  in. 


Pinkerton  on  Petralogj. 


64 


HORTUS  INCLU8U8. 


Last  day  of  May. 

I’m  bringing  to  - day  with  the  strawroots,  twelve  more 
sketches  in  folio,  and  the  plan  is  that  out  of  those,  making 
with  the  rest  twenty-four,  you  choose  twelve  to  keep  next 
week,  with  the  new  folio  of  twelve  to  be  then  brought,  and 
you  then  put  aside  twelve  to  be  given  back  in  exchange  for  it ; 
then  next  to  next  week  you  choose  twelve  out  of  that  twenty- 
four,  and  then  next  week  twelve  out  of  its  twenty-four,  and 
then  when  I can’t  send  any  more  you  choose  the  one  to  keep 
out  of  the  last  lot,  which  you  see  will  then  be  the  creamiest 
cream,  not  to  say  cheesiest  cheese  of  the  rest ! Now  isn’t  that 
a nice  amusing  categorical,  cataloquizical,  catechismic,  cat- 
cataceous  plan? 


1th  June. 

You  have  been  what  Joanie  calls  a “ Doosie  Dandy  ” about 
those  dozens  of  sketches  ! You’re  always  to  have  twenty-four 
on  hand,  then  those  I send  to-day  are  to  stay  with  the  twelve 
you  have,  till  next  Monday,  and  you’ll  have  time  then  to 
know  which  you  like  best  to  keep.  Next  Monday  I aend 
another  twelve  and  take  back  the  twelve  you’ve  done  with. 

It  was  very  beautiful  yesterday  looking  from  here. 

I’m  pretty  well,  and  writing  saucy  things  to  everybody. 

I told  a Cambridge  man  yesterday  that  he  had  been  clever 
enough  to  put  into  a shilling  pamphlet  all  the  mistakes  of  his 
generation. 


^th  Nomrher. 

Do  you  know  how  to  make  sugar  candy  ? In  my  present 
abject  state  the  only  way  of  amusing  myself  I can  hit  on  is 
setting  the  girls  of  the  school  to  garden  and  cook  ! By  way 
of  beginning  in  cooking,  I offered  to  pay  for  any  quantity  of 
wasted  sugar  if  they  could  produce  me  a crystal  or  two  of 
sugar  candy.  (On  the  way  to  twelfth  cakes,  you  know,  and 
sugar  animals.  One  of  Francesca’s  friends  made  her  a life-size 
Easter  lamb  in  sugar.)  The  first  try  this  morning  was  brought 
me  in  a state  of  sticky  jelly. 


JIOBTUS  INGLUSUS. 


65 


And  after  sending  me  a recipe  for  candy,  would  you  please 
ask  Harry  to  look  at  the  school  garden  ? I’m  going  to  get 
the  boys  to  keep  that  in  order  ; but  if  Harry  would  look  at  it 
and  order  some  mine  gravel  down  for  the  walks,  and,  with  Mr. 
Brocklebank’s  authority  (to  whom  I have  spoken  already), 
direct  any  of  the  boys  who  are  willing  to  form  a corps  of  little 
gardeners,  aud  under  Harry’s  orders  make  the  best  that  can  be 
made  of  that  neglected  bit  of  earth,  I think  you  and  I should 
enjoy  hearing  of  it. 

Mr.  Kendall  is  a Delphic  oracle.  Do  you  think  you  could 
take  sherry  instead  of  port  ? My  sherry  is — well,  I only  wish 
Falstaff  were  alive  to  tell  you  what  it  is,  or  Will  himself ; but 
shall  I send  you  a bottle?  And  mind  you  don’t  mind  the 
smarting  if  Dr.  K.  gives  you  things  to  make  you  cry.  And 
I’ll  be  so  good,  and  not  make  you  cry  for  a week  at  least. 


27^/i  November^  1886. 

For  once,  I have  a birthday  stone  for  you,  a little  worth 
your  having,  and  a little  gladsome  to  me  in  the  giving.  It  is 
blue  like  the  air  that  you  were  born  into,  aud  always  live  in. 
It  is  as  deep  as  gentians,  and  has  their  gleams  of  green  in  it, 
and  it  is  precious  all  through  within  and  without,  as  Susie 
herself  is.  Many  aud  many  returns  of  all  the  birthdays  that 
have  gone  aw'ay,  and  crowds  yet  of  those  that  never  were  here 
before. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

I never  heard  the  like,  ray  writing  good  ! and  just  now  ! ! If 
you  only  saw  the  wretched  notes  on  the  back  of  lecture  leaves. 

But  I am  so  ver3^  glad  you  think  it  endurable,  and  it  is  so 
nice  to  be  able  to  give  you  a moment’s  pleasure  by  such  a 
thing.  I’m  better  to-day,  but  still  extremely  languid.  I be- 
lieve that  there  is  often  something  in  the  spring  which 
weakens  one  by  its  very  tenderness  ; the  violets  in  the  w^ood 
5 


66 


HORTUS  INGLUSU8. 


send  one  home  sorrowful  that  one  isn’t  worthy  to  see  them,  or 
else,  that  one  isn’t  one  of  them. 

It  is  mere  Midsummer  dream  in  the  wood  to-day. 

You  could  not  possibly  have  sent  me  a more  delightful  pre- 
sent than  this  Lychnis  ; it  is  the  kind  of  flower  that  gives  me 
pleasure  and  health  and  memory  and  hope  and  everything 
that  Alpine  meadows  and  air  can.  I’m  getting  better  gen- 
erally, too.  The  sun  did  take  one  by  surprise  at  first. 

How  blessedly  happy  Joanie  and  the  children  were  yester- 
day at  the  Thwaite  ! I’m  coming  to  be  happy  myself  there 
to-morrow  (D.  Y.). 

Here  are  the  two  bits  of  study  I did  in  Malham  Cove  ; the 
small  couples  of  leaves  are  different  portraits  of  the  first  shoots 
of  the  two  geraniums.  I don’t  find  in  any  botany  an  account 
of  their  little  round  side  leaves,  or  of  the  definite  central  one 
above  the  branching  of  them. 

Here’s  your  lovely  note  just  come.  I am  very  thankful  that 
“ Venice  ” gives  you  so  much  pleasure. 

I hamy  at  least,  one  certainty,  which  few  authors  could  hold 
so  surely,  that  no  one  was  ever  harmed  by  a book  of  mine  ; 
they  may  have  been  offended,  but  have  never  been  discouraged 
or  discomforted,  still  less  corrupted. 

There’s  a saucy  speech  for  Susie’s  friend.  You  won’t  like 
me  any  more  if  I begin  to  talk  like  that. 

The  nice  bread  is  come.  May  I come  to  tea  again  to- 
morrow? 

I never  send  my  love  to  Miss  Beever,  but  I do  love  her  for 
all  that. 


A sapphire  is  the  same  stone  as  a ruby  ; both  are  the  pure 
earth  of  clay  crystallized.  No  one  knows  why  one  is  red  and 
the  other  blue. 

A diamond  is  pure  coal  crystallized. 

An  opal,  pure  flint — in  a state  of  fixed 
I’ll  find  a Susie-book  on  them. 

I’ll  send  II.  Carlyle.  I am  so  very  glad  you  enjoy  it. 

I’m  in  a great  passion  with  the  horrid  people  who  write 


U0RTU8  INCLUSUf^.  67 

letters  to  tease  my  good  little  Susie.  I ivo)it  have  it.  She 
sliall  have  some  more  stones  to-morrow. 

I must  have  a walk  to-day,  and  can’t  give  account  of  them, 
1)11 1 I’ve  looked  them  out.  It’s  so  very  nice  that  you  like 
stones.  If  my  father,  when  I was  a little  boy,  would  only 
have  given  me  stones  for  bread,  how  I should  have  thanked 
liiin,  but  one  doesn’t  expect  such  a taste  in  little  girls. 

What  infinite  power  and  treasure  you  have  in  being  able 
thus  to  enjoy  the  least  things,  yet  having  at  the  same  time  all 
the  fastidiousness  of  taste  and  imagination  which  lays  hold  of 
what  is  greatest  in  the  least,  and  best  in  all  things  ! 

Never  hurt  jmur  eyes  by  writing  ; keep  them  wholly  for 
admiration  and  wonder.  I hojie  to  write  little  more  myself 
of  books,  and  to  join  with  you  in  joy  over  crystals  and  flowers 
in  the  way  we  used  to  do  when  we  were  botli  more  children 
than  we  are. 

I have  been  rather  depressed  by  that  tragic  story  of  the 
codling.  I hoped  the  thief  of  that  apple  Ijas  suffered  more 
than  Eve,  and  fallen  farther  than  either  she  or  Adam. 

Joan  liad  to  be  out  early  this  morning,  and  I won’t  let  her 
write  more,  for  it’s  getting  dark  ; but  she  thinks  of  you  and 
loves  you,  and  so  do  I,  every  da}^  more  and  more. 


TO  MISS  BEEVER. 

I am  ashamed  not  to  have  sent  you  a word  of  expression 
of  my  real  and  very  deep  feelings  of  regard  and  respect  for 
you,  and  of  n\y,  not  fervent  (in  the  usual  phrase,  which  means 
only  hasty  and  ebullient),  but  serenely  warm,  hope  that  you 
may  keep  your  present  power  of  benevolent  happiness  to 
length  of  many  days  to  come.  But  I hope  you  will  some- 
times take  the  simpler  view  of  the  little  agate  box  than  that 
of  birthday  token,  and  that  you  will  wonder  sometimes  at  its 
labyrinth  of  mineral  vegetable  ! I assure  you  there  is  noth- 
ing in  all  my  collection  of  agates  in  its  way  quite  so  perfect 
as  the  little  fiery  forests  of  dotty  trees  in  the  corner  of  the 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS, 


G8 

piece  Avliich  forms  the  bottom.  I ought  to  have  set  it  in 
silver,  but  was  always  afraid  to  trust  it  to  a lapidaiy. 

What  you  say  of  the  Greek  want  of  violets  is  also  very 
interesting  to  me,  for  it  is  one  of  my  little  pet  discoveries 
that  Homer  means  the  blue  iris  by  the  w'ord  translated 
“ violet.” 

I am  utterly  sorry  not  to  come  to  see  you  and  Susie  before 
leaving  for  town,  but  can’t  face  this  bitter  day.  I hope  and 
solemnly  propose  to  be  back  in  a week. 


Thursday  morning. 

I’m  ever  so  much  better,  and  the  jackdaw  has  come.  But 
W'hy  wasn’t  I there  to  meet  his  pathetic  desire  for  art  knowl- 
edge ? To  think  of  that  poor  bird’s  genius  and  love  of  scar- 
let ribbons,  shut  up  in  a cage  ! What  it  might  have  come 
to! 

If  ever  my  St.  George’s  schools  come  to  any  perfection, 
they  shall  have  every  one  a jackdaw  to  give  the  children  their 
first  lessons  in  arithmetic.  I’m  sure  he  could  do  it  perfectly. 
“ No"\v,  Jacli,  take  two  from  four,  and  show  them  how  many 
are  left.”  “Now,  Jack,  if  }'ou  take  the  teaspoon  out  of  this 
saucer,  and  put  it  into  that^  and  then  if  you  take  two  tea- 
spoons out  of  two  saucers,  and  put  them  into  this,  and  then 
if  you  take  one  teaspoon  out  of  this  and  put  it  into  that, 
how  many  spoons  are  there  in  this,  and  how  many  in  that?  ” 
— and  so  on. 

Oh,  Susie,  when  we  do  get  old,  you  and  I,  won’t  we  have 
nice  schools  for  the  birds  first,  and  then  for  the  children  ? 

That  photograph  is  indeed  like  a visit ; how  thankful  I am 
that  it  is  still  my  hope  to  get  the  real  visit  some  day  1 

I was  yesterday,  and  am  always,  certainly  at  present,  very 
unwell,  and  a mere  trouble  to  my  Joanies  and  Susies  and  all 
who  care  for  me.  But  I’m  painting  another  bit  of  moss 
which  I think  Susie  will  enjoy,  and  hope  for  better  times. 

Did  you  see  the  white  cloud  that  stayed  quiet  for  three 
hours  this  morning  over  the  Old  Man’s  summit  ? It  was  one 


H0RTU8  INGLUSUS. 


C9 


of  the  few  remains  of  the  heaven  one  used  to  see.  The 
heaven  one  had  a Father  in,  not  a raging  enemy. 

I send  you  Eogers’  “Italy,”  that  is  no  more.  I do  think 
you’ll  have  pleasure  in  it. 


I’ve  been  made  so  miserable  by  a paj^er  of  Sir  J.  Lubbock’s 
on  flowers  and  insects,  that  I must  come  and  whine  to  you.  He 
says,  and  really  as  if  he  knew  it,  that  insects,  chiefly  bees,  en- 
tirely originate  flowers  ; that  all  scent,  color,  pretty  form,  is 
owing  to  bees ; that  flowers  which  insects  don’t  take  care  of, 
have  no  scent,  color,  nor  honey. 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  likelier  that  the  flowers  which 
have  no  scent,  color,  nor  honey,  don’t  get  any  attention  from 
the  bees. 

But  the  man  really  knows  so  much  about  it,  and  has  tried 
so  many  pretty  experiments,  that  he  makes  me  miserable. 

So  I’m  afraid  you’re  miserable  too.  Write  to  tell  me  about 
it  all. 

It  is  very  lovely  of  you  to  send  me  so  sweet  a note  ^^  hen  I 
have  not  been  near  3^ou  since  the  tenth  centur^a  But  it  is 
all  I can  do  to  get  my  men  and  my  moor  looked  after  ; they 
have  both  the  instinct  of  doing  what  I don’t  want,  the  mo- 
ment my  back’s  turned  ; and  then  there  has  not  been  light 
enough  to  know  a hawk  from  a hand-saw,  or  a crow  from  a 
ptarmigan,  or  a moor  from  a meadow.  But  how  much  better 
your  eyes  must  be  when  you  can  write  such  lovely  notes  ! 

I don’t  understand  how  the  strange  cat  came  to  love  you 
so  quickly,  after  one  dinner  and  a rest  by  the  fire  ! I slionld 
have  thought  an  ill-treated  and  outcast  animal  would  have  re- 
garded everything  as  a trap,  for  a month  at  least — dined  in 
tremors,  warmed  itself  with  its  back  to  the  fire,  watching  the 
door,  and  jumped  up  the  chimney  if  you  stepped  on  the  rug. 

Tlie  pheasant  had  come  from  Lachin-^^-gair,  with  two 
others,  which  I’ve  been  eating  hot,  cold,  broiled,  and  dev- 
illed, and  with  your  oysters  for  lunch.  Mattie,  Diddie,  and 
Joanie  have  fine  times  of  it  together,  they  say,  and  that  I 
ought  to  be  there  instead  of  here.  Do  you  think  so  ? 


70 


nORTUS  INCLUSU8. 


If  you  only  knew  the  good  your  peacock’s  feathers  have 
done  me,  and  if  you  could  only  see  the  clever  drawing  I’m 
making,  of  one  from  the  blue  breast  1 You  know  what  lovely 
little  fern  or  equisetum  stalks  of  sapphire  the  filaments  are  ; 
they  beat  me  so,  but  they’re  coming  nice. 

Joanie  says  she  thinks  you  are  not  well;  and  I’m  easily 
frightened  about  you,  because  you  never  take  any  care  of 
yourself,  and  will  not  do  what  Mary  or  Joan  or  I bid  you, 
you  naughty  little  thing. 

You  won’t  even  submit  quietly  to  my  publishing  arrange- 
ments, but  I’m  resolved  to  have  the  book  (“Frondes”)  re- 
main yours  altogether  ; you  had  all  the  trouble  with  it,  and  it 
will  help  me  ever  so  much  more  than  I could  myself. 


That  is  so  intensely  true  what  you  say  about  Turner’s  work 
being  like  nature’s  in  its  slowness  and  tenderness.  I always 
think  of  him  as  a great  natural  force  in  a human  frame. 

So  nice  all  you  say  of  .the  “ Ethics  ! ” And  I’m  a monster 
of  ingratitude,  as  bad  as  the  Dragon  of  Wantley.  Don’t  like 
Dr.  Brown’s  friend’s  book  at  all.  It’s  neither  Scotch  nor 
English,  nor  fish  nor  flesh,  and  it’s  tiresome. 

I’m  in  the  worst  humor  I’ve  been  in  this  month,  which  is 
saying  much  ; and  have  been  writing  the  wickedest  “ Fors  ” 
I ever  wrote,  which  is  saying  more  ; you  will  be  so  angry. 


I’m  so  very  glad  you  will  mark  the  bits  j'ou  like,  but  are 
there  not  a good  many  here  and  there  that  you  dorit  like  ? — 
I mean  that  sound  hard  or  ironical.  Please  don’t  mind 
them.  They’re  partly  because  I never  count  on  readers  who 
vdll  really  care  for  the  prettiest  things,  and  it  gets  me  into  a 
bad  habit  of  expressing  contempt  which  is  not  indeed  any 
natural  part  of  my  mind. 

It  pleases  me  especially  that  you  have  read  “ The  Queen  of 
the  Air.”  As  far  as  I know,  myself,  of  my  books,  it  is  the 


HOUTUS  INCLUSU8. 


71 


most  useful  and  careful  piece  I have  done.  But  that  again — 
did  it  not  shock  you  to  have  a heathen  goddess  so  much  be- 
lieved in?  (I’ve  believed  in  English  ones  long  ago.)  If  you 
can  really  forgive  me  for  “ The  Queen  of  the  Air,”  there  are 
all  sorts  of  things  I shall  come  begging  you  to  read  some  day- 


21  July. 

I’m  always  looking  at  the  Thwaite,  and  thinking  how  nice 
it  is  that  you  are  there.  I think  it’s  a little  nice,  too,  that  i’m 
within  sight  of  you,  for  if  I hadn’t  broken,  I don’t  know  how 
many  not  exactly  promises,  but  nearly,  to  be  back  at  Oxford 
by  this  time,  I might  have  been  dragged  from  Oxford  to 
London,  from  London  to  France,  from  France  who  knows 
where?  But  I’m  here,  and  settled  to  produce,  as  soon  as 
possible,  the  following  works — 

1.  New  number  of  “ Love’s  Meinie,”  on  the  Stormy  Petrel. 

2.  New  ditto  of  “Proserpina,”  on  sap,  pith,  and  bark. 

3.  New  ditto  of  “Deucalion,”  on  clouds. 

4.  New  “Fors,”  on  new  varieties  of  young  ladies. 

5.  Two  new  numbers  of  “Our  Fathers,”  on  Brunehaut,  and 
Bertha  her  niece,  and  St.  Augustine  and  St.  Benedict. 

6.  Index  and  epilogue  to  four  Oxford  lectures. 

7.  Keport  and  account  of  St.  George’s  Guild. 

And  I’ve  had  to  turn  everything  out  of  every  shelf  in  the 
house,  for  mildew  and  moths. 

And  I want  to  paint  a little  bank  of  strawberry  leaves. 

And  I’ve  to  get  a year’s  dead  sticks  out  of  the  w’ood,  and 
see  to  the  new  oat  field  on  the  moor,  and  prepare  lectures 
for  October ! 

I‘m  so  idle.  I look  at  the  hills  out  of  bed,  and  at  the  pic- 
tures off  the  sofa.  Let  us  dof/i  be  useless  beings ; let  us  be 
butterflies,  grasshoppers,  lambs,  larks,  anything  for  an  easy  life. 
I’m  quite  horrified  to  see,  now  that  these  two  have  come  back, 
what  a lot  of  books  I’ve  written,  and  how  cruel  I’ve  been  to 
myself  and  everybody  else  who  ever  has  to  read  them.  I’m 
too  sleepy  to  finish  this  note. 


72 


H0BTU8  INGLTI8US. 


13^A  June, 

I do  not  know  when  I have  received,  or  how  I could  receive, 
so  great  an  encouragement  in  all  my  work,  as  I do  in  hearing 
that  you,  after  all  your  long  love  and  watchfulness  of  flowers, 
have  yet  gained  pleasure  and  insight  from  “Proserpina”  as 
to  leaf  structure.  The  examples  you  send  me  are  indeed  ad- 
mirable. Can  you  tell  me  the  exact  name  of  the  plant,  that 
I may  quote  it  ? 

Yes,  and  the  weather  also  is  a great  blessing  to  me — so 
lovely  this  morning. 


I have  been  simply  ashamed  to  write  without  being  able  to 
say  I was  coming  ; and  this  naughty  Joanie  has  put  us  all 
two  months  behindhand,  and  now  Brant  wood  still  seems  as 
far  away  as  at  Florence.  (It  never  really  seems  far  away, 
anywhere.) 

But  you  will  like  to  know  that  I’m  very  well,  and  extremely 
good,  and  writing  beautiful  new  notes  to  “Modern  Painters,” 
and  getting  on  with  “Our  Fathers.”  And  what  lovely  ac- 
counts I have  of  “Frondes”  from  Allen. 

I really  think  that  one  book  has  made  all  our  business  lively. 

And  I’m  so  delighted  with  the  new  brooch — the  one  !Mary 
gave  to  Joan.  I never  saw  a more  lovely  pearl  in  any  queen’s 
treasury,  nor  more  exquisite  setting.  Joan  and  I have  no 
end  of  pleasure  in  playing  with  it,  and  I vainly  try  to  summon 
philosophy  enough  to  convince  either  her  or  myself,  that  dew 
is  better  than  pearls,  and  moss  than  emeralds. 

I think  my  da^'s  of  philosophy  must  be  over.  I certainly 
shall  not  have  enough  to  console  me,  if  I don’t  get  to  Brant- 
wood  soon.  The  fog  here  is  perpetual,  and  I can  only  see, 
and  just  that,  where  the  edge  of  my  paper  is  leaving  me  still 
room  to  say  how  lovingly  and  faithfully  I am 

Yours,  etc. 


You  won’t  refuse  to  give  house  room  or  even  parlor  room 
again  to  the  first  volume  of  your  “ Stones.”  It  has  your  name 


HOIiTUS  INCLUSUS, 


73 


in  it,  and  feather  sketches,  which  I like  the  memory  of  doing, 
and  I found  another  in  my  stores  to  make  up  the  set.  I have 
to-day,  regretfully,  but  in  proud  satisfaction,  sent  to  Mr. 
Brown’s  friend,  Miss  Lawley.  You  will  be  thinking  I’m  never 
going  to  write  any  new  books  more,  I’ve  promised  so  long  and 
done  nothing.  But  No.  2 and  No.  4,  of  “Amiens”  have 
been  going  on  at  once,  and  No.  3 and  No.  4 of  “ Love’s 
Meinie,”  and  No.  7 of  “ Proserpina  ” had  to  be  done  in  the 
middle  of  all  four,  like  the  stamens  in  a torrnentilla.  And 
now  my  total  tormentilla  is  all  but  out.  But  “ all-but  ” is  a 
long,  long  word  with  my  printers  and  me.  Still,  something 
has  been  done  every  day,  and  not  ill  done,  lately’- ; and  Joanie 
tells  me  your  friends  enjoyed  their  little  visit,  as  I did  seeing 
them.  And  Joanie  is  well,  and  literally  as  busy  as  a bee,  and 
sometimes  tumbles  down  at  last  on  the  sofa  just  at  bedtime, 
like  the  rather  humbly  bees  in  the  grass  when  they’ve  been 
too  busy.  And  I’m  pretty  well,  and  asking  j^oung  ladies  to 
come  and  see  me. 


I’m  getting  steadily  better,  and  breathing  the  sunshine  a 
little  again  in  soul  and  lips.  But  I always  feel  so  naughty 
after  having  had  morning  prayers,  and  that  the  whole  house 
is  a sort  of  little  Bethel  that  I’ve  no  business  in. 

I’m  reading  history  of  early  saints  too,  for  my  Amiens 
book,  and  feel  that  I ought  to  be  scratched,  or  starved,  or 
boiled,  or  something  unpleasant,  and  I don’t  know  if  I’m  a 
saint  or  a sinner  in  the  least,  in  mediaeval  language.  How  did 
saints  feel  themselves,  I wonder,  about  their  saintship ! 


It  is  such  a joy  to  hear  that  you  enjoy  anjdhing  of  mine,  and 
a double  joy  to  have  j^our  sympathy  in  my  love  of  those  It- 
alians. How  I wish  there  were  more  like  you  ! What  a 
happy  world  it  would  be  if  a quarter  of  the  people  in  it 
cared  a quarter  as  much  as  you  and  I do,  for  what  is  good  and 
true  ! 


u 


EOBTUS  INCLU8US, 


That  Nativity  is  the  deepest  of  all.  It  is  by  the  master  of 
Botticelli,  you  know  ; and  whatever  is  most  sweet  and  tender 
in  Botticelli  he  owes  to  Lippi. 

But,  do  you  know,  I quite  forget  about  Cordelia,  and  where 
I said  it  ! please  keep  it  till  I come.  I hope  to  be  across  to 
see  you  to-morrow. 

They’ve  been  doing  photographs  of  me  again,  and  I’m  an 
orang-outang  as  usual,  and  am  in  despair.  I thought  with 
my  beard  I was  beginningto  be  just  the  least  bit  nice  to  look 
at.  I would  give  up  half  my  books  for  a new  profile. 

What  a lovely  day  since  twelve  o’clock  ! I never  saw  the 
lake  shore  more  heavenly. 

I am  very  thankful  that  you  like  this  St.  Mark’s  so  much, 
and  do  not  feel  as  if  I had  lost  power  of  mind.  I think  the 
illness  has  told  on  me  more  in  laziness  than  foolishness.  I 
feel  as  if  there  was  as  much  in  me  as  ever,  but  it  is  loo  much 
trouble  to  say  it.  And  I find  myself  reconciled  to  staying  in 
bed  of  a morning  to  a quite  woful  extent.  I have  not  been 
affected  so  much  by  melancholy,  being  very  thankful  to  be  still 
alive,  and  to  be  able  to  give  pleasure  to  some  people — foolish 
little  Joanies  and  Susies,  and  so  on. 

You  have  greatly  helped  me  by  this  dear  little  note.  And 
the  bread’s  all  right,  brown  again,  and  I’m  ready  for  asparagus 
of  any  stoutness,  there  ! Are  you  content  ? But  my  new  as- 
paragus is  quite  visible  this  year,  though  how  much  would  be 
Avanted  for  a dish  I don’t  venture  to  count,  but  must  be  con- 
gratulated on  its  definitely  stalky  appearance. 

I was  over  the  water  this  morning  on  school  committee. 
How  bad  I have  been  to  let  those  poor  children  be  torment- 
ed as  they  are  all  this  time  ! I’m  going  to  try  and  stop  all  the 
spelling  and  counting  and  catechising,  and  teach  them  only — 
to  watch  and  pray. 

The  oranges  make  me  think  I’m  in  a castle  in  Spain  ! 

Your  letters  ahvays  warm  me  a little,  not  with  laughing, 
but  with  the  soft  glow  of  life,  for  I live  mostly  with  “la  mort 
dans  Tame.”  (It  iscurious  that  the  French,  Avhom  one  thiuks 
of  as  slight  and  frivolous,  have  this  true  and  deep  expression 
for  the  forms  of  sorrow  that  kill,  as  opposed  to  those  that 


nORTUS  INGLU8U8. 


75 


discipline  and  strengthen.)  And  your  words  and  thought  just 
soften  and  warm  like  west  wind. 

It  is  nice  being  able  to  please  you  with  what  I’m  writing, 
and  that  you  can  tell  people  I’m  not  so  horrid. 

Here’s  the  “ Fors  ” you  saw  the  proof  of,  but  quite 

right  yet. 

The  Willy  ^ quotations  are  very  delightful.  Do  you  know 
that  naughty  “Cowley”  at  all?  There’s  all  kind  of  honey 
and  strawberries  in  him. 

It  is  bitter  cold  here  these  last  days.  I don’t  stir  out,  but 
must  this  afternoon.  I’ve  to  go  out  to  dinner  and  work  at 
the  Arundel  Society.  And  if  you  only  knew  what  was  in  my 
thoughts  you  would  be  so  sorry  for  me,  that  I can’t  tell  you. 


Corpus  Ciiristi  College,  Oxford. 

What  a sad  little  letter ! written  in  that  returned  darkness. 

How  can  you  ever  be  sad,  looking  forward  to  eternal  life 
with  all  whom  you  love,  and  God  over  all. 

It  is  only  so  far  as  I lose  hold  of  that  hoi3e,  that  anything 
is  ever  a trial  to  me.  But  I can’t  think  how  I’m  to  get  on  in 
a world  with  no  Venice  in  it. 

You  were  quite  right  in  thinking  I would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  lawyers.  Not  one  of  them  shall  ever  have  so  much 
as  a crooked  sixpence  of  mine,  to  save  him  from  being  hanged, 
or  to  save  the  Lakes  from  being  filled  up.  But  I really  hope 
there  may  be  feeling  enough  in  Parliament  to  do  a right 
thing  without  being  deafened  with  lawyers’  slang. 

I have  never  thanked  you  for  the  snowdrops.  They 
bloomed  here  beautifully  for  four  days.  Then  I had  to  leave 
them  to  go  and  lecture  in  London.  It  was  nice  to  see  them, 
but  my  whole  mind  is  set  on  finding  whether  there  is  a 
country  where  the  flowers  do  not  fade.  Else  there  is  no 
spring  for  me.  People  liked  the  lecture,  and  so  many  more 
wanted  to  come  than  could  get  in,  that  I had  to  promise  to 
give  another. 


Sliakespeare. 


76 


II0RTU8  INCLU8U8. 


Here’s  your  little  note,  first  of  all.  And  if  you  only  knew 
how  my  wristbands  are  plaguing  me  you’d  be  very  sorry. 
They’re  too  much  starched,  and  would  come  down  like  mit- 
tens; and  noY/  I’ve  turned  them  ux3,  they’re  just  like  two  hor- 
rid china  cups  upside  down,  inside  my  coat,  and  I’m  afraid 
to  write  for  fear  of  breaking  them.  And  I’ve  a week’s  work 
on  the  table,  to  be  done  before  one  o’clock,  on  pain  of  uproar 
from  my  friends,  execution  from  my  enemies,  reproach  from 
my  lovers,  triumph  from  my  haters,  despair  of  Joanie,  and— 
what  from  Susie  ? I’ve  had  such  a bad  night,  too  ; woke  at 
half-past  three  and  have  done  a day’s  work  since  then — com- 
posing my  lecture  for  March,  and  thinking  what’s  to  become 
of  a godson  of  mine  whose — 

Well,  never  mind.  I needn’t  give  you  the  trouble,  poor 
little  Susie,  of  thinking  too.  I wonder  if  that  jackdaw  story 
will  come  to-day. 

This  must  be  folded  up  and  directed  all  right  at  once,  or 
I’m  sure  it  will  never  go.  Love  to  Mary,  very  much,  please, 
and  three  times  over  ; I missed  these  two  last  times. 

I’m  going  to  Oxford  to-day  (D.V.),  really  quite  well,  and 
rather  merry.  I went  to  the  circus  with  my  new  pet,  and 
saw  lovely  riding  and  ball  pla}^ ; and  my  pet  said  the  onlj^ 
drawback  to  it  all,  was  that  she  couldn’t  sit  on  both  sides  of 
me.  And  then  I went  home  to  tea  with  her,  and  gave 
mamma,  who  is  Evangelical,  a beautiful  lecture  on  the  piety 
of  dramatic  entertainments,  which  made  her  laugh,  whether 
she  would  or  no  ; and  then  I had  my  Christmas  dinner  in 
advance  with  Joanie  and  Arfie  and  Stacy  Marks,  and  his  wife 
and  two  pretty  daughters,  and  I had  six  kisses — two  for 
Christmas,  two  for  New  Year’s  Day,  and  two  for  Twelfth 
Night — and  eveiybody  ^vas  in  the  best  humor  with  everybody 
else.  And  now  my  room  is  ankle  deep  in  unanswered  letters, 
mostly  on  business,  and  I’m  going  to  shovel  them  up  and  tie 
them  in  a parcel  labelled  “Needing  particular  attention;” 
and  then  that  will  be  put  into  a cupboard  in  Oxford,  and  I 
shall  feel  that  everything’s  been  done  in  a business-like  wa}% 

That  badger’s  beautiful.  I don’t  think  there’s  any  need 
for  such  beasts  as  that  to  turn  Christians. 


HORTUS  INCLU8US. 


77 


I am  indeed  most  thankful  you  are  well  again,  though 
I never  looked  on  that  deafness  very  seriously  ; but  if  you 
like  hearing  watches  tick,  and  boots  creak,  and  plates  clatter, 
so  be  it  to  you,  for  many  and  many  a year  to  come.  I think 
I should  so  like  to  be  deaf,  mostly,  not  expected  to  answer 
anybody  in  society,  never  startled  by  a bang,  never  tortured 
by  a railroad  whistle,  never  hearing  the  nast}^  cicads  in  Italy, 
nor  a child  cry,  nor  an  owl.  Nothing  but  a nice  whisper  into 
my  ear,  by  a pretty  girl.  Ah,  well,  I’m  very  glad  I can  chat- 
ter to  you  with  my  weak  voice,  to  my  heart’s  content ; and 
you  must  come  and  see  me  soon,  now.  All  that  you  say  of 
“ Proserpina  ” is  joyful  to  me.  What  a Susie  you  are,  draw- 
ing like  that ! and  I’m  sure  you  know  Latin  better  than  I do. 


I am  better,  but  not  right  j’et.  There  is  no  fear  of  sore 
throat,  I think,  but  some  of  prolonged  tooth  worry.  It  is 
more  stomachic  than  coldic,  I believe,  and  those  tea-cakes  are 
too  crisply  seductive.  What  can  it  be,  that  subtle  treachery 
that  lurks  in  tea-cakes,  and  is  wholly  absent  in  the  rude 
honesty  of  toast  ? 

The  metaphysical  effect  of  tea-cake  last  night  was,  that  I 
had  a perilous  and  weary  journey  in  a desert,  in  which  I had 
to  dodge  hostile  tribes  romid  the  corners  of  pyramids. 

A very  sad  letter  from  Joanie  tells  me  she  was  going  to  Scot- 
land last  night,  at  which  I am  not  only  very  sorry,  but  very  cross. 

A chirping  cricket  on  the  hearth  advises  me  to  keep  my 
heart  up.  Foolish  hedgehog,  not  to  come  for  that  egg.  Don’t 
let  Abigail  be  cast  down  about  her  tea-cakes.  An  “honest” 
egg  is  just  as  destructive  of  my  j)eace  of  mind. 


Your  happy  letters  (with  the  sympathetic  misery  of  com- 
plaint of  dark  days)  have  cheered  me  as  much  as  anything 
could  do. 

The  sight  of  one  of  my  poor  “ Companions  of  St.  George,” 
who  has  sent  me,  not  a widow’s  but  a parlor-maid’s  (an  old 
schoolmistress)  “ all  her  living,”  and  whom  I found  hist 


78 


H0BTU8  INGLUSU8. 


night,  dying,  slowly  and  quietly,  in  a damp  room,  just  the  size 
of  your  study  (which  her  landlord  won’t  mend  the  roof  of), 
by  the  light  of  a single  tallow  candle — dying,  I say,  sloivly,  of 
consumption,  not  yet  near  the  end,  but  contemplating  it  with 
sorrow,  mixed  partly  with  fear,  lest  she  should  not  have  done 
all  she  could  for  her  children  ! 

The  sight  of  all  this  and  my  own  shameful  comforts,  three 
wax  candles  and  blazing  fire  and  dry  roof,  and  Susie  and 
Joanie  for  friends  ! 

Oh,  me,  Susie,  what  is  to  become  of  me  in  the  next  world, 
who  have  in  this  life  all  my  good  things ! 


What  a sweet,  careful,  tender  letter  this  is  ! I re-enclose  it 
at  once  for  fear  of  mischief,  though  I’ve  scarcely  read,  for  in- 
deed my  eyes  are  weary,  but  I see  what  gentle  mind  it  means. 

Yes,  you  will  love  and  rejoice  in  }mur  Chaucer  more  and 
more.  Fancy,  I’ve  never  time,  now,  to  look  at  him — obliged 
to  read  even  my  Homer  and  Shakespeare  at  a scramble,  half 
missing  the  sense — the  business  of  life  disturbs  one  so. 


Will  you  please  thank  Miss  Watson  for  the  “ Queen’s 
Wake.”  I should  like  to  tell  her  about  Hogg’s  visit  to  Pleriie 
Hill,  and  my  dog  Dash’s  reception  of  him  ; but  I’m  never 
pleased  with  the  Shepherd’s  bearing  to  Sir  W.  Scott,  as  one 
reads  it  in  “Lockhart.” 

There’s  no  fear  of  Susie’s  notes  ever  being  less  bright  as 
long  as  she  remains  a child,  and  it’s  a long  while  yet  to  look 
forward  to. 

I had  such  a nice  dinner  all  alone  with  Joanie,  yesterday, 
and  Sarah  waiting.  Joanie  coughed  and  startled  me.  I ac- 
cused her  of  having  a cold.  To  defend  herself  she  si\id 
(the  mockery).  Perhaps  she  oughtn’t  to  kiss  me.  I said, 
“ Couldn’t  Sarah  * try  first,  and  see  if  any  harm  comes  of 


* Our  Herne  Hill  parlor-maid  for  four  years.  One  of  quite  tlie 
brightest  and  handsomest  types  of  English  beauty  I ever  saw,  either  in 
life,  or  fancied  in  painting. 


HOBTUS  INGLUSUS. 


79 


it?”  (Sarah  highly  amused.)  For  gooduess’  sake  don’t  tell 
Kate. 

I’ve  only  a crushed  bit  of  paper  to  express  my  crushed  heart 
upon.  It’s  the  best ! 

That  you  should  be  tliinking,  designing,  undermining,  as 
Mrs,  Somebody  says  in  that  disgusting  “Mill  on  the  Floss,” 
to  send  to  Loudon  for  port.  And  my  port  getting  crusty, 
dusty,  cobwebby,  and  generally  like  its  master,  just  because 
it's  no  use  to  nobody.  I don’t  drink  it  ; Joan  don’t ; Arfie’s 
always  stuck  up  with  his  claret  and  French  vinegaret  things 
(gave  him  all  his  rheumatism,  I say);  and  now  here’s  my 
Susie  sending  to  London,  and  passing  me  b}"  and  my  sorrow- 
ful bin.  I didn’t  think  she’d  have  bin  and  done  it.  Even 
the  Alpine  plants  of  which  I hear,  as  darlings,  don’t  at  pres- 
ent console  me. 

Just  you  try  such  a trick  again,  that’s  all ! 


Herne  Hill. 

Here’s  your  letter  first  thing  in  the  morning,  while  I’m 
sipping  my  coffee  in  the  midst  of  such  confusion  as  I’ve  not 

T e 


often  achieved  at  my  best.  The  little  room,  which  I think  is 
as  nearly  as  possible  the  size  of  your  study,  but  with  a lower 
roof,  has  to  begin  with — A,  my  bed  ; B,  my  basin  stand  ; C, 
my  table  ; D,  my  chest  of  drawers  ; thus  arranged  in  relation 
to  E,  the  window  (which  has  still  its  dark  bars  to  prevent 
the  little  boy  getting  out ) ; F,  the  fireplace ; G,  the  golden 


80 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


or  mineralogical  cupboard ; and  H,  the  grand  entrance. 
The  two  dots  with  a back  represent  my  chair,  which  is  prop- 
erly solid  and  not  im-easy.  Three  others  of  lighter  disposi- 
sion  find  place  somewhere  about.  These,  with  the  chimney- 
piece  and  drawer’s  head,  are  covered,  or  rather  heaped,  with 
all  they  can  carry,  and  the  morning  is  just  looking  in,  aston- 
ished to  see  what  is  expected  of  it,  and  smiling — (yes,  I may 
fairly  say  it  is  smiling,  for  it  is  cloudless  for  its  part  above 
the  smoke  of  the  horizon  line) — at  Sarah’s  hope  and  mine,  of 
ever  getting  that  room  into  order  by  twelve  o’clock.  The 
chimney-piece  with  its  bottles,  spoons,  lozenge  boxes,  matches, 
candlesticks,  and  letters  jammed  behind  them,  does  appear 
to  me  entirely  hopeless,  and  this  the  more  because  Sarah, 
when  I tell  her  to  take  a bottle  away  that  has  a mixture  in  it 
which  I don’t  like,  looks  me  full  in  the  face,  and  says  “ she 
won’t,  because  I may  want  it.”  I submit,  because  it  is  so  nice 
to  get  Sarah  to  look  one  full  in  the  face.  She  really  is  the 
prettiest,  round-faced,  and  round-eyed  girl  I ever  saw,  and 
it’s  a great  shame  she  should  be  a housemaid  ; only  I wish 
she  would  take  those  bottles  away.  She  says  I’m  looking- 
better  to-da}%  and  I think  I’m  feeling  a little  bit  more — no,  I 
mean,  a little  bit  less — demoniacal.  But  I still  can  do  that 
jackdaw  beautifully. 


I am  quite  sure  you  would  have  felt  like  Albert  Diirer,  had 
you  gone  on  painting  wrens. 

The  way  Nature  and  Heaven  waste  the  gifts  and  souls  they 
give  and  make,  passes  all  wonder.  You  might  have  done 
anything  you  chose,  only  you  were  too  modest. 

No,  I never  will  call  you  my  dear  lady  ; certainly,  if  it 
comes  to  that,  something  too  dreadful  will  follow. 


That  is  so  very  nice,  isn’t  it,  about  the  poor  invalid  and 
“ Frondes.”  It  is  terrible  that  doctors  should  say  such  things, 
but  on  the  whole,  when  they  feel  them  strongly  they  should 


H0RTU8  IjYCLUSUS. 


81 


speak,  else  it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  give  trust- 
worthy comfort  and  healing  hope. 

I wish  that  peacock  of  yours  would  teach  me  to  brush  my 
hair  before  I come  to  dinner,  for  I am,  though 

Ever  your  loving 

J.  R, 

not  fit  to  be  seen  lately,  with  fighting  midges  in  my  hair. 

I am  most  interested  in  your  criticism  of  “ Queen  Mary.’* 
I have  not  read  it,  but  the  choice  of  subject  is  entirely  morbid 
and  wrong,  and  I am  sure  all  you  say  must  be  true.  The 
form  of  decline  which  always  comes  on  mental  power  of 
Tennyson’s  passionately  sensual  character,  is  alwa3^s  of  seeing 
ugly  things,  a kind  of  delirium  tremens.  Turner  had  it  fa- 
tally in  his  last  years. 

I am  so  glad  you  enjoy  writing  to  me  more  than  anyone  else. 
The  book  you  sent  me  of  Dr.  John  Brown’s  on  books,  has 
been  of  extreme  utility  to  me,  and  contains  matter  of  the  deep- 
est interest.  Did  you  read  it  yourself?  If  not,  I must  lend  it 
to  you. 

I am  so  glad  also  to  know  of  your  happiness  in  Chaucer. 
Don’t  hurry  in  reading.  I will  get  you  an  edition  for  your 
own,  that  you  may  mark  it  in  peace. 


I send  you  two  books,  neither  I fear  very  amusing,  but  on 
my  word,  I think  books  are  always  dull  when  one  really  most 
wants  them.  No,  other  people  don’t  feel  it  as  you  and  I do, 
nor  do  the  dogs  and  ponies,  but  oughtn’t  we  to  be  thankful 
that  we  do  feel  it.  The  thing  I fancy  we  are  both  wanting  in, 
is  a right  power  of  enjoying  the  past.  What  sunshine  there 
has  been  even  in  this  sad  year  ! I have  seen  beauty  enough 
in  one  afternoon,  not  a fortnight  ago,  to  last  me  for  a year  if 
I could  rejoice  in  memory. 

But  I believe  things  are  a little  better  at  Seascale.  Arfies’ 
gone  off  there,  but  I have  a painter  friend,  Mr.  Goodwin,  com- 
ing to  keep  me  company,  and  I’m  a little  content  in  this  worst 
of  rainy  days,  in  hopes  there  may  be  now  some  clearing  for  him. 

Our  little  kittens  pass  the  days  of  their  youth  up  against 


82 


HORTUS  INGLU8U8. 


the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  house,  where  the  heat  of  the  oven 
comes  through.  What  an  existence  ! and  yet  with  all  my  in- 
door advantages 

I am  your  sorrowful  and  repining 

J.  R 


I am  entirely  grateful  for  ^’’our  letter,  and  for  all  the  sweet 
feelings  expressed  in  it,  and  am  entirely  reverent  of  the  sor- 
row which  you  feel  at  my  speaking  thus.  If  only  all  were  like 
you.  But  the  chief  sins  and  evils  of  the  day  are  caused  by  the 
Pharisees,  exactly  as  in  the  time  of  Christ,  and  “ they  make 
broad  their  phylacteries  ” in  the  same  way,  the  Bible  supersti- 
tiously  read,  becoming  the  authority  for  every  error  and  heresy 
and  cruelty.  To  make  its  readers  understand  that  the  God  of 
their  own  day  is  as  living,  and  as  able  to  speak  to  them 
directly  as  ever  in  the  days  of  Isaiah  and  St.  John,  and  that 
He  would  now  send  messages  to  His  Seven  Churches,  if  the 
Churches  would  hear,  needs  stronger  words  than  any  I have 
yet  dared  to  use,  against  the  idolatry  of  the  historical  record 
of  His  messages  loug  ago,  perverted  by  men’s  forgetfulness, 
and  confused  bj^  mischance  and  misapprehension  ; and  if  in- 
stead of  the  Latin  form  Scripture  ” we  put  always  “writing” 
instead  of  “ written  ”or  “ write  ” in  one  place,  and  “ Script- 
ure,” as  if  it  meant  our  English  Bible,  in  another,  it  would 
make  such  a difference  to  our  natural  and  easy  understanding 
the  range  of  texts. 

The  peacock’s  feathers  are  marvellous.  I am  very  glad 
to  see  them.  I never  had  any  of  their  downy  ones  before. 
My  compliments  to  the  bird,  upon  them,  please. 

I have  had  a tiring  forenoon  in  the  house  with  dark  air, 
and  must  go  out ; and  poor  Susie  will  not  only  scarce  find  a 
turned  leaf,  but  an  empty  line  in  the  unturned  one. 

But  children  always  like  to  have  letters  about  anything. 

I found  a strawberry  growing  just  to  please  itself,  as  red  as 
a ruby,  high  up  on  Yewdale  crag  yesterday,  in  a little  corner 
of  rock  all  its  own  ; so  I left  it  to  enjoy  itself.  It  seemed  as 
happy  as  a lamb,  and  no  more  meant  to  be  eaten. 


H0RTU8  IN0LU8US. 


83 


Yes,  those  are  all  sweetest  bits  from  Chaucer  (the  pine  new 
to  me) ; 3'our  own  copy  is  being  bound.  And  all  the  Kich- 
ai-J — but  you  must  not  copy  out  the  Richard  bits,  for  I like 
(dl  my  Richard  alike  from  beginning  to  end.  Yes,  my  “ seed 
pearl  ” bit  is  pretty,  I admit  ; it  was  like  the  thing.  The 
cascades  here,  I’m  afraid,  come  down  more  like  seed  oatmeal. 


Now  it’s  very  naughty  of  you,  Susie,  to  think  everybody 
else  would  have  ate  that  strawberry.  Mr.  Severn  and  Mr. 
Patmore  were  both  with  me  ; and  when  I said,  “ Noav,  I don’t 
believe  three  other  people  could  be  found  who  would  let  that 
jilone,”  Mr.  Patmore  was  quite  shocked,  and  said,  “I’m  quite 
sure  nobody  but  you  would  have  thought  of  eating  it  ! ” 

Ever  your  loving,  gormandising  (Patmore  knows  me!) 

J.  R. 


Actually  I’ve  never  thanked  you  for  that  exquisite  cheese. 
The  mere  look  of  it  puts  one  in  heart  like  a fresh  field.  I 
] lever  tasted  anything  so  perfect  in  its  purity  of  cream  nature. 
The  Chaucer  bits,  next  to  the  cheese,  are  delicious,  too. 

About  the  railroad  circular,  I knew  and  know  nothing  but 
that  I signed  my  irame.  They  may  have  printed  said  circular 
perhaps. 

At  all  events,  most  thankful  should  I be  to  anyone  who 
would  help  in  such  cause.  I’m  at  work  on  a piece  of  moss 
again,  far  better,  1 hope  likely  to  be,  than  the  one  you  saw. 


I believe  in  my  hasty  answ^er  to  your  first  kind  letter  I 
never  iroticed  what  }’Ou  said  about  Aristophanes.  If  you  will 
indeed  send  me  some  notes  of  the  passages  that  interest  you 
in  the  “ Birds,”  it  will  not  only  be  very  pleasant  to  me,  but 
quite  seriously  useful,  for  the  “Birds ’’have  always  been  to 
me  so  mysterious  in  that  comedy,  that  I have  never  got  the 
good  of  it  which  I know  is  to  be  had.  The  careful  study  of 


HOBTUS  INCLU8U8. 


S± 

it,  i3ufc  off  from  day  to  day,  was  likely  enough  to  fall  into  the 
great  region  of  my  despair,  unless  you  had  chanced  thus  to 
remind  me  of  it. 

Please,  if  another  chance  of  good  to  me  come  in  your  way, 
in  another  brown  spotty-purple  peacock’s  feather,  will  you  yet 
send  it  to  me,  and  I will  be  always  your  most  grateful  and 
faithful  J.  P- 


Hekne  Kill. 

It  is  so  very  sweet  and  good  of  you  to  write  such  lovely 
play  letters  to  Joanie  and  me  ; they  delight  and  comfort  us 
more  than  I can  tell  you. 

What  translation  of  Aristophanes  is  that  ? I must  get  it. 
I’ve  lost  I can’t  tell  you  how  much  knowledge  and  power 
through  false  pride  in  refusing  to  read  translations,  though  I 
couldn’t  read  the  original  without  more  trouble  and  time  than 
I could  spare  ; nevertheless,  you  must  not  think  this  Eng- 
lish gives  you  a true  idea  of  the  original.  The  English  is 
much  more  “ English  ” in  its  temper  than  its  words.  Aris- 
tophanes is  far  more  drj^  severe,  and  concentrated  ; his  words 
are  fewer,  and  have  fuller  flavor ; this  English  is  to  him 
what  currant  jelly  is  to  currants.  But  it’s  immensely  useful  to 
me.  Yes,  that  is  very  sweet  about  the  kissing.  I have  done 
it  to  rocks  often,  seldom  to  flowers,  not  being  sure  that 
they  would  like  it. 

I recollect  giving  a very  reverent  little  kiss  to  a young  sap- 
ling that  was  behaving  beautifully  in  an  awkward  chink,  be- 
tween two  great  big  ones  that  were  ill-treating  it.  Poor  me 
(I’m  old  enough,  I hope,  to  write  grammar  my  own,  way),  my 
own  little  self,  meantime,  never  by  any  chance  got  a kiss 
when  I wanted  it — and  the  better  I behaved,  the  less  chance 
I had,  it  seemed. 


I never  thought  the  large  packet  was  from  you  ; it  was 
thrown  aside  with  the  rest  till  evening,  and  only  opened  then 
by  chance.  I was  greatly  grieved  to  find  what  I had  thus  left 
unacknowledged.  The  drawings  are  entirely  beautiful  and 


HORTUS  INCLU8US, 


85 


wonderful, but,  like  all  the  good  work  done  in  those  b}^gone  days 
(Donovan’s  own  book  being  of  inestimable  excellence  in  this 
kind),  they  affect  me  with  profound  melancholy  in  the  thought 
of  the  loss  to  the  entire  body  of  the  nation  of  all  this  perfect 
artistic  capacity,  and  sweet  will,  for  want  of  acknowledgment, 
system,  and  direction.  I must  write  a careful  passage  on  this 
matter  in  my  new  Elements  of  Drawing.  Your  drawings 
have  been  sent  me  not  by  you,  but  by  my  mistress  Fors,  for  a 
text.  It  is  no  wonder,  when  you  can  draw  like  this,  that  you 
care  so  much  for  all  lovely  nature.  But  I shall  be  ashamed  to 
show  you  my  peacock’s  feather  ; I’ve  sent  it,  however. 

What  a naughty  child  you  are  to  pick  out  all  that  was  use- 
less and  leave  all  that’s  practical  and  useful  for  Frondes  ! ” 
You  ought  to  have  pounced  on  all  the  best  bits  on  drawing 
from  nature  ! 


It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  give  me  jmur  book,  but  I accept 
it  at  once  most  thankfully.  It  is  the  best  type  I can  show  of 
the  perfect  wmrk  of  an  English  lad}’’  in  her  own  simple  peace 
of  enjoyment  and  natural  gift  of  truth,  in  her  sight  and  in 
her  mind.  And  many  pretty  things  are  in  my  mind  and  heart 
about  it,  if  my  hands  were  not  too  cold  to  shape  words  for 
them.  The  book  shall  be  kept  with  my  Bewicks  ; it  is  in  no- 
wise inferior  to  them  in  fineness  of  w^ork.  The  finished  proof 
of  next  “ Proserpina  ” will,  I think,  be  sent  me  by  Saturday’s 
post.  Much  more  is  done,  but  this  number  was  hindered  by 
the  revisal  of  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church,  which  puts  me  at 
rest  about  mistakes  in  my  Greek. 


It  is  a great  joy  to  me  that  you  like  the  Wordsworth  bits  ; 
there  are  worse  coming  (unless  Diddie,  perhaps,  begs  them 
off)  ; but  I’ve  been  put  into  a dreadful  passion  by  tw^o  of  my 
cleverest  girl  pupils  “ going  off  pious  ! ” It’s  exactly  like  a 
nice  pear  getting  “ sleepy  ; ” and  I’m  pretty  nearly  in  the 
worst  temper  I can  be  in,  for  W.  W.  But  what  are  these 
blessed  feathers  ? Everything  that’s  best  of  grass  and  clouds 


86 


HOETUS  INGLU8U8. 


and  cbrysoprase.  What  incomparable  little  creature  wears 
such  things,  or  lets  fall  ? The  “ fringe  of  flame  ” is  Carlyle’s, 
not  mine,  but  we  feel  so  much  alike,  that  you  may  often  mis- 
take one  for  the  other  now. 

You  cannot  in  the  least  tell  what  a help  3^011  are  to  me,  in 
caring  so  much  for  my  things  and  seeing  what  I try  to  do  in 
them.  You  are  quite  one  of  a thousand  for  sjmipathy  with 
everybody,  and  one  of  the  ten  times  ten  thousand,  for  special 
sympathy  with  my  own  feelings  and  tries.  Yes,  that  second 
column  is  rather  nicely  touched,  though  I say  it,  for  hands 
and  eyes  of  sixty-two  ; but  when  once  the  wind  stops  I hope 
to  do  a bit  of  primrosey  ground  that  will  be  richer. 


Here,  not  I,  but  a thing  with  a dozen  of  colds  in  its  head, 
am  I 

I caught  one  cold  on  Wednesday  last,  another  on  Thursday, 
two  on  Friday,  four  on  Saturday,  and  one  at  every  station 
between  this  and  Ingleborough  on  Monda}\  I never  was  in 
such  ignoble  misery  of  cold.  I’ve  no  cough  to  speak  of,  nor 
anything  worse  than  usual  in  the  way  of  sneezing,  but  my 
hands  are  cold,  my  pulse  nowhere,  my  nose  tickles  and  wrings 
me,  my  ears  sing — like  kettles,  my  mouth  has  no  taste,  my 
heart  no  hope  of  ever  being  good  for  anything,  any  more.  I 
never  passed  such  a wretched  morning  by  my  own  fireside  in 
all  my  days,  and  I’ve  quite  a fiendish  pleasure  in  telling  you 
all  this,  and  thinking  hov^  miserable  you’ll  be  too.  Oh,  me, 
if  I ever  get  to  feel  like  myself  again,  won’t  I take  care  of 
myself. 


Seven  of  the  eleven  colds  are  better,  but  the  other  four  are 
worse,  and  they  were  the  worst  before,  and  I’m  such  a wreck 
and  rag  and  lump  of  dust  being  made  mud  of,  that  I’m 
ashamed  to  let  the  maids  bring  me  my  dinner. 

Your  contemptible,  miserable,  beyond  pitiable,  past  deplor- 
able J.  E. 


IIORTUS  INCLU8U8. 


87 


The  little  book  is  very  lovely,  all  of  it  that  is  your  oimi. 
The  reiigiou  of  it  you  know  is,  anybody's,  what  my  poor 
little  Susie  was  told  when  she  was  a year  or  two  younger  than 
she  is  now. 

What  we  should  all  try  to  do,  is  to  find  out  something 
certain  about  God,  for  ourselves. 


The  feathers  nearly  made  me  fly  away  from  all  my  Psalters 
and  Exoduses,  to  you,  and  my  dear  peacocks.  I wonder, 
when  Solomon  got  his  ivory  and  apes  and  peacocks,  whether 
he  ever  had  time  to  look  at  them.  He  couldn’t  always  be 
ordering  children  to  be  chopped  in  two.  Alas,  I suppose  his 
wisdom,  in  England  of  to-day,  would  have  been  taxed  to  find 
out  which  mother  lied  in  saying  which  child  ivasnt  hers ! 

But  you  ivill  like  my  psalter,  I’m  sure.  Diddie  wouldn’t 
copy  the  wickedest  bits,  so  I was  obliged  to  leave  them  out ! 

Oh,  dear,  I feel  so  wicked  to-day,  I could  even  tease  you, 
by  telling  you  Joanie  was  better,  and  how  it  came  to  pass.  I 
mustn’t  say  more,  but  that  I love  you  ever  so  much,  and  am 
ever,  etc. 

I began  this  note  especially  to  tell  you  how  delighted  I was 
with  your  idea  of  the  flower  show  ; how  good  it  will  be  for 
the  people,  and  how  nice  for  you  ! 

I’ve  been  writing  to  Miss  R again,  and  Miss  L.’s  quite  right 
to  stay  at  home.  “ She  thinks  I have  an  eagle’s  eye.”  Well, 
what  else  should  I have,  in  day  time  ? together  wnth  my 
cat’s  e}"e  in  the  dark  ? But  you.  ma}'’  tell  her  I should  be 
very  sorry  if  my  eyes  were  no  better  than  eagles’  ! “Both 
the  eagle  know  what  is  in  the  pit  ? ” I do. 


I’m  only  going  away  for  Sunday,  coming  back  on  the  Mon- 
da}^,  and  going  to  stay  for  a v<^eek  longer.  Mr.  MacD.  has 
begun  a pretty  drawing  of  the  study  (and  really  depends  on 
my  assistant  criticism)  ; and  Diddie,  I think,  will  enjoy  her 
dinner  with  you  to-morrow  better  than  if  I had  gone  for 


88 


EORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


good  and  all ; and  I think  I shall  enjoy  my  Sunday  at  Shef- 
field, if  I had  gone  for  evil  and  all.  I’ve  turned  the  page 
to  say  I’m  rather  pleased  with  that  trans-mutation  (what  a 
stupid  thing  of  me  to  divide  tliat  stupid  word)  of  “ for  good 
and  all,”  mockingest  of  common  phrases,  even  if  one  were  go- 
ing away  for  a honeymoon  it  would  only  be  for  better  or 
worse— or  stay,  perhaps  it  means  for  good  and  all  ehe.  One 
uses  it  too  without  the  all — “for  good,”  meaning  that  noth- 
ing that  isn’t  good  can  be  eternal.  I am  puzzled  ; but  I be- 
lieve I’m  coming  back  for  good  anyhow.  And,  there  now, 
I’ve  to  turn  the  page  once  more,  and,  I was  going  to  say 
something  stupid  about  good-by,  a word  that  makes  me 
shudder  from  head  to  foot. 

I’ve  found  another  stone  for  you,  lapis  lazuli,  which  never 
fades,  and  is  heaven  color  to  all  time. 


That  you  may  not  make  a complete  infidel  of  yourself  with 
those  insidious  “Arabian  Nights,”  or  a complete  philosopher 
of  yourself,  which  would  be  unbecoming  at  your  age,  with 
the  “ Council  of  Friends  ” I send  you  a Western  book  of  a 
character  at  once  prosaic,  graceful,  and  simple,  which  will  dis- 
enchant and  refresh  you  at  once.  I will  find  a second  volume 
before  you  have  finished  the  first,  and  meanwhile  you  must 
come  and  choose  the  next  book  that  is  to  be,  out  of  my  lib- 
rary, which  you  never  condescend  to  look  at  when  you’re 
here. 

By  hook  or  by  crook,  by  swans  and  cygnets,  by  Carj^accio 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  I’ll  come  to  see  you,  please,  to-da}'. 

I’m  really  not  quite  so  bad  all  over,  }'et  ; and  I’ve  written 
things  lately  with  much  in  them  that  will  comfort  you  for 
me,  though  I can’t  quite  comfort  myself.  And  I’ll  come 
often  to  be  lectured  ; and  I’m  not  reading  novels  just  now, 
but  only  birds  and  beasts. 

I want  to  know  the  names  of  all  your  five  cats  ; they  were 
all  at  the  door  yesterday,  and  I should  have  made  six,  but 
they  ran  away. 

I send  two  of  Miss  Kate’s  books  for  Mary  and  you  to  keep 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


89 


aa  long  as  you  choose.  Miss  Arnold  is  coming  to-morrow, 
]jut  I ho^^e  to  get  to  the  Thwaite  at  half-past  twelve.  Only 
my  morning  goes  just  now  like  the  Hash  of  a Christmas 
cracker. 


I’m  better  ; I trust  you  are  ! It  is  a day  at  last ; and  the 
flov/ers  are  all  off  their  heads  for  joy.  I’ve  been  writing 
some  pretty  things  too,  and  thinking  naughty  ones,  as  I do 
Avhen  I’m  pretty  well. 

But  I’ve  lost  my  voice  and  can’t  sing  them  1 


Yes,  of  course  keep  that  book,  any  time  you  like ; but  I 
think  you’ll  find  most  of  it  unreadable.  If  you  do  get 
through  it,  you’ll  have  to  tell  me  all  about  it,  you  know,  for 
Fve  never  read  a word  of  it  except  just  the  j)lums  here  and 
there. 

Publishers  are  brutes,  and  always  spoil  one’s  books,  and 
then  say  it’s  our  fault  if  they  don’t  sell ! 

Yes,  that  is  a lovely  description  of  a picture.  All  the  same 
I believe  the  picture  itself  was  merely  modern  sensationalism. 

They  can’t  do  without  death  nowadays,  not  because  they 
want  to  know  how  to  die,  but  because  they’re  too  stupid  to 
live. 


I hope  you  will  be  comforted  in  any  feeling  of  languor  or 
depression  in  yourself  by  hearing  that  I also  am  wholly  lack 
lustrous,  df^pressed,  oppressed,  co?7zpressed,  and  r/o^ortpressed, 
by  a quite  countless  pressgang  of  despondencies,  humilities, 
remorses,  shamefacednesses,  all  overnesses,  all  undernesses, 
sicknesses,  dulnesses,  darknesses,  sulkinesses,  and  everything 
that  rhymes  to  lessness  and  distress,  and  that  I’m  sure  you 
and  I are  at  present  the  mere  targets  of  the  darts  of  the — , 
etc.,  etc.,  and  Mattie’s  waiting  and  mustn’t  be  loaded  with 
more  sorrow  ; but  I can’t  tell  you  how  sorry  I am  to  break  my 
promise  to-day,  but  it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  come. 


90 


H0RTU8  INGLU8U8. 


I’ll  look  at  the  dial  to-night.  What  a cruel  thing  of  you  to 
make  me  “ look  upon  it ! ” I’m  not  gone  to  Venice  yet,  hut 
thinking  of  it  hourly.  I’m  very  nearly  done  with  toasting  my 
bishop;  he  just  wants  another  turn  or  two,  and  then  a littlo 
butter. 


I’m  a little  better,  but  can’t  laugh  much  yet,  and  won’t  cry 
if  I can  help  it.  Yet  it  always  makes  me  nearly  cry,  to  hear 
of  those  poor  working-men  trying  to  express  themselves  and 
nobody  ever  teaching  them,  nor  anybody  in  all  England, 
knowing  that  painting  is  an  art,  and  sculpture  also,  and  that 
an  untaught  man  can  no  more  carve  or  paint  than  play  tho 
fiddle.  All  efforts  of  the  kind  mean  simply  that  we  have 
neither  master  nor  scholars  in  any  rank  or  any  place.  And 
I,  also,  what  have  / done  for  Conistou  schools  }'et  ? I don’t 
deserve  an  oyster  shell,  far  less  an  oyster. 


Kiuby  Lonsdale, 

Thumday  evening. 

You  won’t  get  this  note  to-morrow.  I’m  afraid,  but  after 
that  I think  they  will  be  regular  till  I reach  Oxford.  It  is  very 
nice  to  know  that  there  is  someone  who  does  care  for  a letter, 
as  if  she  were  one’s  sister.  You  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
clouds  break  for  me  ; and  I had  indeed  a very  lovely  morning 
drive  and  still  lovelier  evening,  and  full  moonrise  here  over 
the  Lune. 

I suppose  it  is  Kirk-by -Lime’s  Dale  ? for  the  church,  I find, 
is  a very  important  Norman  rdic.  By  the  way,  I should  tell 
you  that  the  colored  plates  in  the  “ Stones  of  Venice  ” do 
great  injustice  to  my  drawings  ; the  patches  are  worn  on  the 
stones.  My  drawings  were  not  good,  but  the  plates  are  total 
failures.  The  only  one  even  of  the  engravings  which  is 
rightly  done  is  the  {last,  I think,  in  Appendix)  inlaid  dove  and 
raven.  I’ll  show  you  the  drawing  for  that  when  I come  back, 
and  perhaps  for  the  San  Michele,  if  I recollect  to  fetch  it  from 
Oxford,  and  I’ll  fetch  you  the  second  volume,  which  has 
really  good  plates.  That  blue  beginning,  I forgot  to  say,  is  of 


U OUT  US  INCLUSUS. 


91 


the  Straits  of  Messina,  and  it  is  really  very  like  the  color  of 
the  sea. 

That  is  intensely  curious  about  the  parasitical  plant  of 
Borneo.  But — very  dreadful ! 


You  are  like  Timon  of  Athens,  and  I’m  like  one  of  his  par- 
asites. The  oranges  are  delicious,  the  brown  bread  dainty  ; 
what  the  melon  is  goiiig  to  be  I have  no  imagination  to  tell. 
But,  oh  me,  I had  such  a lovely  letter  from  Dr.  John,  sent 
me  from  Joan  this  morning,  and  I’ve  lost  it.  It  said,  “Is 
Susie  as  good  as  iier  letters?  If  so,  she  must  be  better. 
What  freshness  of  enjoyment  in  everything  she  says  ! ” 

Alas ! not  in  everything  she  feels  in  this  weather,  I fear. 
Was  ever  anything  so  awful  ? 


Do  you  know,  Susie,  everything  that  has  happened  to  me 
(and  the  leaf  I sent  you  this  morning  may  show  you  it  has 
had  some  hurting  in  it)  is  little  in  comparison  to  the  crushing 
and  depressing  eli’ect  on  me  of  what  I learn  day  by  day  as  I 
work  on,  of  the  cruelty  and  ghastliness  of  the  nature  I used  to 
think  so  Divine?  But  I get  out  of  it  by  remembering,  This 
is  but  a crumb  of  dust  we  call  the  “world,”  and  a moment  of 
eternity  which  we  call  “ time.”  Can’t  answer  the  great  ques- 
tion to-night. 


I can  only  thank  you  for  telling  me  ; and  say,  Praised  be 
God  for  giving  him  back  to  us. 

Worldly  people  say  “Thank  God”  when  they  get  what 
they  "want  ; as  if  it  amused  God  to  plague  them,  and  was  a 
vast  piece  of  self-denial  on  His  part  to  give  tliem  what  they 
liked.  But  I,  who  am  a simple  person,  thank  God  when  He 
hurts  me,  because  I don’t  think  He  likes  it  any  more  than  I 
do  ; but  I can’t  Him,  because — I don’t  understand 

why — I can  only  praise  what’s  pretty  and  pleasant,  like  get- 
ting back  our  doctor. 


92 


H0RTU8  INGLUSUS. 


2&th  November. 

And  to-morrow  I’m  not  to  be  there  ; and  I’ve  no  present 
for  you,  and  I am  so  sorry  for  both  of  us  ; but  oh,  my  dear 
little  Susie,  the  good  people  all  say  this  wretched  makeshift 
of  a world  is  coming  to  an  end  next  year,  and  you  and  I and 
everybody  who  likes  birds  and  roses  are  to  have  new  birth- 
days and  presents  of  such  sugar  plums.  Crystals  of  candied 
cloud  and  manna  in  sticks  with  no  ends,  all  the  w'a}^  to  the 
sun,  and  white  stones  ; and  new  names  in  them,  and  heaven 
knows  what  besides. 

It  sounds  all  too  good  to  be  true  ; but  the  good  people  are  pos- 
itive of  it,  and  so’s  the  great  Pyramid,  and  the  Book  of  Daniel, 
and  the  “Bible of  Amiens.”  You  can’t  possibly  believe  in  any 
more  promises  of  mine,  I know,  but  if  I do  come  to  see  j'ou  this 
day  week,  don’t  think  it’s  a ghost  ; and  believe  at  least  that  ’we 
all  love  you  and  rejoice  in  your  birthday  wherever  we  are. 

I’m  so  thankful  you’re  better. 

Beading  my  old  diary,  I came  on  a sentence  of  yours  last 
year  about  the  clouds  being  all  “ trimmed  with  swansdown,” 
so  prett}\  ( I copied  it  out  of  a letter.)  The  thoughts  of  you 
alTvays  trim  me  with  swansdown. 


I never  got  your  note  written  yesterday ; meant  at  least  to 
do  it  even  after  post  time,  but  was  too  stupid,  and  am  infi- 
nitely so  to-day  also.  Only  I must  pray  you  to  tell  Sarah  we 
all  had  elder  wine  to  finish  our  evening  with,  and  I mulled  it 
myself,  and  poured  it  out  from  the  saucepan  into  the  expect- 
ants’ glasses,  and  everybody  asked  for  more  ; and  I slept  like 
a dormouse.  But,  as  I said,  I am  so  stupid  this  morning 

that . Well,  there’s  no  “that  ” able  to  say  how  stupid  I 

am,  unless  the  fly  that  wouldn’t  keep  out  of  the  candle  last 
night  ; and  he  had  some  notion  of  bliss  to  be  found  in  candles, 
and  I’ve  no  notion  of  anything. 


The  blue  sky  is  so  wonderful  to-day,  and  the  woods  after 
the  rain  so  delicious  for  walking  in,  that  I must  still  delay 


HORTUS  INGLU8US. 


93 


any  school  talk  one  day  more.  Meantime  I’ve  sent  you  a 
book  which  is  in  a nice  large  print,  and  may  in  some  parts 
interest  you.  I got  it  that  I might  be  able  to  see  Scott’s 
material  for  “ Peveril  ; ” and  it  seems  to  me  that  he  might 
have  made  more  of  the  real  attack  on  Latham  House  than  of 
the  fictitious  one  on  Front  de  Boeuf’s  castle,  had  he  been  so 
minded,  but  perhaps  he  felt  himself  hampered  by  too  much 
known  fact. 

I’ve  just  finished  and  sent  off  the  index  to  “Deucalion,” 
first  volume,  and  didn’t  feel  inclined  for  more  schooling  to- 
day. 

I’ve  just  had  a charming  message  from  Martha  Gale,  under 
the  address  of  “ that  old  duckling.”  Isn’t  that  nice?  Ethel 
was  coming  to  see  you  to-day,  but  I’ve  confiscated  her  for  the 
woodcock,  and  she  shan’t  come  to-morrow,  for  I want  you  all 
to  myself  ; only  it  isn’t  her  fault. 


But  you  gave  my  present  before,  a month  ago,  and  I’ve 
been  presenting  myself  with  all  sorts  of  things  ever  since  ; 
and  now  it’s  not  half  gone.  I’m  very  thankful  for  this,  how- 
ever, just  now,  for  St.  George,  Vv^ho  is  cramped  in  his  career, 
and  I’ll  accept  it,  if  you  like,  for  him.  Meantime  I’ve  sent  it 
to  the  bank,  and  hold  him  your  debtor.  I’ve  had  the  most 
delicious  gift  besides  I ever  had  in  my  life — the  Patriarch 
of  Venice’s  blessing  written  with  his  own  hand,  with  his  por- 
trait. 

I’ll  bring  you  this  to  see  to-morrow,  and  a fresh  Turner. 


I have  forbidden  Joanie’s  going  out  to-day,  for  she  got  a 
little  chill  in  the  wind  last  night,  and  looked  pale  and  defaite 
in  the  evening  ; she’s  all  right  again,  but  I can’t  risk  her  out, 
though  she  was  much  minded  to  come,  and  I am  sure  you 
and  Mary  will  say  I am  right.  She  will  be  delighted  and  re- 
freshed by  seeing  the  young  ladies  ; and  the  Turners  look 
grand  in  the  gray  light. 


94 


H0BTU8  INGLU8U8. 


So  I have  told  Baxter  to  bring  up  a fly  from  the  Water- 
head,  and  to  secure  your  guests  on  their  way  here,  and  put  up 
to  bring  them  so  far  back.  I shall  also  send  back  by  it  a 
purple  bit  of  Venice,  which  pleases  me,  though  the  mount’s 
too  large  and  spoils  it  a little  ; but  you  will  be  gracious  to  i*t. 

What  delicious  asparagus  and  brown  bread  I’ve  been  hav- 
ing !!!!!!!!  I should  like  to  write  as  many  notes  of  ad- 
miration as  there  are  waves  on  the  lake  ; the  octave  must  do. 
I’ve  been  writing  a pretty  bit  of  chant  for  Byron’s  heroic 
measure.  Joan  must  play  it  to  you  when  she  next  comes. 
I’m  mighty  well,  and  rather  mischievous. 


The  weather  has  grievously  depressed  me  this  last  week, 
and  I have  not  been  fit  to  speak  to  anybody.  I had  much  in- 
terruption in  the  early  part  of  it,  though,  from  a pleasant 
visitor  ; and  I have  not  been  able  to  look  rightly  at  your  pretty 
little  book.  Nevertheless,  I’m  quite  sure  your  strength  is  in 
private  letter  writing,  and  that  a curious  kind  of  shyness  pre- 
vents your  doing  yourself  justice  in  print.  You  might  also 
surely  have  found  a more  pregnant  motto  about  birds’  nests  I 
Am  not  I cross  ? But  these  gray  skies  are  mere  poison  to 
my  thoughts,  and  I have  been  writing  such  letters  that  I don’t 
think  many  of  my  friends  are  likely  to  speak  to  me  again. 


I think  you  must  have  been  spinning  the  sunbeams  into 
gold  to  be  able  to  scatter  gifts  like  this. 

It  is  your  own  light  of  the  eyes  that  has  made  the  woodland 
leaves  so  golden  brown. 

Well,  I have  just  opened  a St.  George  account  at  the  Conis- 
ton  Bank,  and  this  will  make  me  grandly  miserly  and  careful. 

I am  very  thankful  for  it. 

Also  for  Harry’s  saying  of  me  that  I am  gentle  ! I’ve  been 
quarrelling  with  so  many  people  lately  I had  forgotten  all 
grace,  till  you  brought  it  back  yesterday  and  made  me  still 
your  gentle,  etc. 


SUSIE’S  LETTEES. 


SUSIE’S  LETTERS, 


The  following  Letters  and  the  little  notes  on  Birds  are  in- 
Bcvted  here  by  the  express  wish  of  Mr.  Buskin.  I had  it  in 
my  mind  to  pay  Susie  some  extremely  fine  compliments  about 
these  Letters  and  Notes,  and  to  compare  her  method  of  ob- 
servation with  Thoreau’s,  and,  above  all,  to  tell  some  very 
pretty  stories  showing  her  St.  Francis-like  sympathy  with, 
and  gentle  power  over,  all  living  creatures  ; but  Susie 
that  she  is  already  far  too  prominent,  and  we  hope  that  the^ 
readers  of  “ Hortus  ” will  see  for  themselves  how  she  rever- 
ences and  cherishes  all  noble  life,  with  a special  tenderness,  I 
think,  for  furred  and  feathered  creatures.  To  all  outcast  and 
hungry  things  the  Thwaite  is  a veritable  Bethlehem,  or  House 
of  Bread,  and  to  her,  their  sweet  “Madonna  Nourrice,”  no 
less  than  to  her  Teacher,  the  sparrows  and  linnets  that  crowd 
its  thresholds  are  in  a very  particular  sense  “Sons  of  God.” 

A.  F. 


April  Uth,  1874. 

I sent  off  such  a long  letter  to  you  yesterday,  my  dear 
friend.  Did  you  think  of  your  own  quotation  from  Homer, 
when  you  told  me  that  field  of  yours  was  full  of  violets?  But 
•where  are  the  four  fountains  of  ivhite  water? — through  a 
meadow  full  of  violets  and  parsley  ? How  delicious  Calypso’s 
fire  of  finely  chopped  cedar  ! How  shall  I thank  you  for 
allowing  me,  Susie  the  little,  to  distil  3’’our  writings  ? Such  a 
jo}"  and  comfort  to  me- — fori  shall  need  much  very  soon  now. 
I do  so  thank  and  love  you  for  it  ; I am  sure  I may  say  so  to 
you.  I rejoice  again  and  again  that  I have  such  a friend. 

7 


98 


HORTUS  INGLUSU8, 


May  I never  love  him  less,  never  prove  unworthy  of  his  friend- 
ship ! How  I wanted  my  letter,  and  now  it  has  come,  and  I 
have  told  our  Dr.  John  of  your  safe  progress  so  far.  I trust 
you  will  be  kept  safe  from  everything  that  might  injure  you 
in  any  way. 

The  snow  has  melted  away,  and  this  is  a really  sweet  April 
day  and  ought  to  be  enjoyed — if  only  Susie  could.  But  both 
she  and  her  dear  friend  must  strive  with  their  grief.  When 
I was  a girl — (I  was  once) — I used  to  delight  in  Pope’s 
Homer.  I do  believe  I rather  enjoyed  the  killing  and  slaying, 
specially  the  splitting  down  the  chine!  But  wlien  I tried  to 
read  it  again  not  very  long  ago,  I got  tired  of  this  kind  of 
thing.  If  you  had  only  translated  Homer  ! then  I should 
have  had  a feast.  When  a schoolgirl,  going  each  day  with 
my  bag  of  books  into  Manchester,  I used  to  like  Don 
Quixote  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison  with  my  milk  porridge. 
. ihust  send  you  only  this  short  letter  to-day.  I can  see  your 
aolet  field  from  this  window.  How  sweetly  the  little  limpid 
stream  would  tinhle  to-day  ; and  how  the  primroses  are  sitting 
listening  to  it  and  the  little  birds  sipping  it ! I have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  bees  go  more  by  sight  than  by  scent.  As 
I stand  by  my  peacock  with  his  gloriously  gorgeous  tail  all 
spread  out,  a bee  comes  right  at  it  (very  vulgar,  but  expres- 
sive) ; and  I have  an  Alpine  Primula  on  this  window-stone 
brightly  in  flower,  and  a bee  came  and  alighted,  but  went 
away  again  at  once,  not  finding  the  expected  honey.  I won- 
der what  you  do  the  livelong  day,  for  I know  you  and  idle- 
ness are  not  acquaintances.  I am  so  sorry  your  favorite 
places  are  spoiled.  But  dear  Brantwood  will  grow  prettier 
and  prettier  under  your  care. 


April  ^th. 

I have  just  been  pleased  by  seeing  a blackbird  enjoying, 
with  schoolboy  appetite,  portions  of  a moistened  crust  of 
bread  which  I threw  out  for  him  and  his  fellow-creatures. 
How  he  dug  Avith  his  orange  bill ! — even  more  orange  than 
usual  perhaps  at  this  season  of  the  year.  At  length  the 


HORTUS  INCLUSU8. 


99 


robins  have  built  a nest  in  the  ivy  in  our  yard — a very  secure 
and  sheltered  place,  and  a very  convenient  distance  from  the 
crumb  market.  Like  the  old  woman,  he  sings  with  a merry 
devotion,  and  she  thinks  there  never  was  such  music,  as  she 
sits  upon  her  eggs  ; he  comes  again  and  again,  with  every  little 
dainty  that  his  limited  income  allows,  and  she  thinks  it  all  the 
sweeter  because  /le  brings  it  to  her.  Now  and  then  she  leaves 
her  nest  to  stretch  her  wings,  and  to  shake  off  the  dust 
of  care,  and  to  prevent  her  pretty  ankles  being  cramped.  But 
she  knows  her  duty  too  well  to  remain  absent  long  from  her 
precious  eggs. 

Now  another  little  note  from  Dr.  John,  and  he  actually 
begins,  “My  dear  ‘Susie,’” — and  ends,  “Let  me  hear  from 
you  soon.  Ever  yours  affectionately.”  Also  he  says,  “It  is 
very  kind  in  you  to  let  me  get  at  once  close  to  j^ou.”  The 
rest  of  his  short  letter  (like  you,  he  was  busy)  is  nearly  all 
about  you,  so  of  course  it  is  interesting  to  me,  and  he  hopes 
you  are  already  getting  good  from  the  change,  and  I indulge 
the  same  hope. 


IWi  April. 

Brantwood  looked  so  very  nice  this  morning  decorated  by 
the  coming  into  leaf  of  the  larches.  I wish  you  could  have 
seen  them  in  the  distance  as  I did  : the  early  sunshine  had 
glanced  upon  them  lighting  up  one  side,  and  leaving  the  other 
in  softest  shade,  and  the  tender  green  contrasted  with  the 
deep  browns,  and  grab's  stood  out  in  a wonderful  way,  and  the 
trees  looked  like  spirits  of  the  wood,  which  you  might  think 
would  melt  away  like  the  White  Lady  of  Avenel. 

Dear  sweet  April  still  looks  coldly  upon  us — the  month  you 
love  so  dearly.  Little  white  lambs  are  in  the  fields  now,  and 
so  much  that  is  sweet  is  coming  ; but  there  is  a shadow  over 
this  house  now ; and,  also,  my  dear  kind  friend  is  far  away. 
The  horse-chestnuts  have  thrown  away  the  winter  coverings 
of  their  buds,  and  given  them  to  that  dear  economical  mother 
earth,  who  makes  such  good  use  of  everything,  and  works  up 
old  materials  again  in  a wonderful  way,  and  is  delightfully 
unlike  most  economists — the  very  soul  of  generous  liberality. 


100 


H0UTU8  INGLUSUS. 


Now  some  of  your  own  words,  so  powerful  as  they  are — you 
are  speaking  of  the  Alp  and  of  the  “ Great  Builder  ” — of  your 
own  transientness,  as  of  the  grass  upon  its  sides  ; and  in  this 
very  sadness,  a sense  of  strange  companionship  with  past 
generations,  in  seeing  what  they  saw.  They  have  ceased  to 
look  upon  it,  you  will  soon  cease  to  look  also  ; and  the  granite 
wall  will  be  for  others,  etc.,  etc. 

My  dear  friend,  was  there  ever  anyone  so  pathetic  as  you  ? 
And  you  have  the  power  of  bringing  things  before  one,  both 
to  the  eye  and  to  the  mind  : you  do  indeed  paint  wdth  your 
pen.  Now  I have  a photograph  of  you — not  a very  satisfactory 
one,  but  still  I am  glad  to  have  it,  rather  than  none.  It  was 
done  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Were  you  in  search  of  something 
of  Bewick’s  ? 

I have  just  given  the  squirrel  his  little  loaf  (so  you  see  I 
am  a lady),*  he  has  bounded  away  with  it,  full  of  joy  and 
gladness.  I wish  that  this  were  my  case  and  yours,  for  what- 
ever we  may  wish  for,  that  we  have  not.  We  have  a variety 
and  abundance  of  loaves.  I have  asked  Dr.  J.  Brown  whether 
he  would  like  photographs  of  your  house  and  the  picturesque 
breakwater.  I do  so  wish  that  you  and  he  and  I did  not  suffer 
so  much,  but  could  be  at  least  moderately  happy.  I am  sure 
you  w^ould  be  glad  if  you  knew,  even  in  this  time  of  sorrow, 
when  all  seems  stale,  flat,  unprofitable,  the  pleasure  and 
interest  I have  had  in  reading  your  Vol.  3 [“Modern 
Painters”].  I study  your  character  in  your  writings,  and  I 
find  so  much  to  elevate,  to  love,  to  admire — a sort  of  educa- 
tion for  my  poor  old  self — and  oh ! such  beauty  of  thought 
and  word. 


Even  yet  my  birds  want  so  much  bread  ; I do  believe  the 
worms  are  sealed  up  in  the  dry  earth,  and  they  have  many 
little  mouths  to  fill  just  now — and  there  is  one  old  blackbird 
whose  devotion  to  his  wife  and  children  is  lovely.  I should 
like  him  never  to  die,  he  is  one  of  my  heroes.  And  now  a dog 


* See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  XLV. 


HORTuS  INCLUSUS. 


101 


which  calls  upon  me  sometimes  at  the  window,  and  I point 
kitchenward  and  the  creature  knows  what  I mean,  and  goes 
and  gets  a good  meal.  So  if  I can  only  make  a dog  happy 
(as  you  do,  only  you  take  yours  to  live  with  you,  and  I cannot 
do  that)  it  is  a pleasant  thing.  I do  so  like  to  make  things 
happier,  and  I should  like  to  put  bunches  of  hay  in  the  fields 
for  the  poor  horses,  for  there  is  very  scant  supply  of  grass,  and 
too  many  for  the  supply. 


May. 

I cannot  longer  refrain  from  writing  to  yon,  m3'  dear  kind 
friend,  so  often  are  3'ou  in  my  thoughts.  Dearest  Joanie  has 
told  you,  I doubt  not,  and  I know  how  sorry  3'ou  are,  and  how 
truly  you  are  feeling  for  your  poor  Susie.  So  hnoioiny  that,  I 
will  say  no  more  about  my  sorrow.  There  is  no  need  for 
w'ords.  I am  wishing,  oh,  so  much,  to  know  how  you  are  : 
quite  safe  and  well,  I hope,  and  able  to  have  much  real  enjoy- 
ment  in  the  many  beautiful  things  by  which  3'ou  are  sur- 
rounded. May  you  la}^  up  a great  stock  of  good  health  and 
receive  much  good  in  many  ways,  and  then  return  to  those 
who  so  much  miss  you,  and  by  whom  3'ou  are  so  greatly  be- 
loved. 

Coniston  would  go  into  your  heart  if  you  could  see  it  now 
— so  very  lovelj',  the  oak  trees  so  early,  nearl}'  in  leaf  alread}*. 
Your  beloved  blue  hyacinths  will  soon  be  out,  and  the  cuckoo 
has  come,  but  it  is  long  since  Susie  has  been  out.  She  only 
stands  at  an  open  window,  but  she  must  try  next  week  to  go 
into  the  garden  ; and  she  is  finding  a real  pleasure  in  making 
extracts  from  3’our  writings  foi'  you,oiten  w'ondering  ‘‘will 
he  let  that  remain  ? ” and  hoping  that  he  will. 

Do  3'ou  ever  send  home  orders  about  your  Brantwood  ? I 
have  been  wishing  so  much  that  your  gardener  might  be  told 
to  mix  quantities  of  old  mortar  and  soil  together,  and  to  fill 
many  crevices  in  your  new  walls  w’ith  it ; then  the  breezes 
W'ill  bring  fern  seeds  and  plant  them,  or  rather  sow  them  in 
such  fashion  as  no  human  being  can  do.  When  time  and  the 
showers  brought  by  the  west  wind  have  mellowed  it  a little, 


102 


H0HTU8  INCLUSU8. 


tlie  tiny  beginnings  of  mosses  will  be  there.  The  sooner  this 
can  be  done  the  better.  Do  not  think  Susie  presumptuous. 

We  have  hot  sun  and  a very  cool  air,  which  I do  not  at  ail 
like. 

I hope  your  visit  to  Palermo  and  your  lady  have  been  all 
that  you  could  wish.  Please  do  write  to  me  ; it  would  do  me 
so  much  good  and  so  greatly  refresh  me. 

This  poor  little  letter  is  scarcely  worth  sending,  only  it  says 
that  I am  your  loving  Susie. 


\A.th  May, 

My  deaeest  Fkiend, — Your  letter  yesterday  did  me  so  much 
good,  and  though  I answered  it  at  once  yet  here  I am  again. 
A kind  woman  from  the  other  side  has  sent  me  the  loveliest 
group  of  drooping  and  very  tender  ferns,  soft  as  of  some  vel- 
vet belonging  to  the  fairies,  and  of  the  most  exquisite  green, 
and  primroses,  and  a slender-stalked  white  flower,  and  so  ar- 
ranged that  they  continually  remind  me  of  that  enchanting 
group  of  yours  in  Vol.  3,  which  you  said  I might  cut  out. 
What  would  you  have  thought  of  me  if  I had  ? Oh,  that  you 
would  and  could  sketch  this  group — or  even  that  your  eye 
could  rest  upon  it!  Now  you  will  laugh  if  I ask  you  whether 
harpies  ever  increase  in  number  ? or  whether  they  are  only 
the  “ old  original.”  They  quite  torment  me  when  I open  the 
window,  and  blow  chaff  at  me.  I suppose  at  this  moment 
dearest  Joanie  is  steaming  away  to  Liverpool ; one  always 
wants  to  know  now  Vv^hether  people  accomplish  a journey 
safely.  When  the  blackbirds  come  for  soaked  bread,  they 
generally  eat  a nice  little  lot  themselves,  before  carrying  any 
away  from  the  window  for  their  little  ones  ; but  Bobbie,  “ our 
little  English  Eobin,”  has  just  been  twice,  took  none  for  him- 
self, but  carries  beak-load  after  beak-load  for  his  speckled  in- 
fants. How  curious  the  universal  love  of  bread  is  ; so  many 
things  like  and  eat  it — even  flies,  and  snails  I 

You  know  you  inserted  a letter  from  Jersey  about  fish  I* 


* See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  XXX. 


HOJRTUS  INGLU8U8. 


103 


A lady  there  tells  me  that  formerly  3'ou  might  have  a bucket 
of  oysters  for  sixpence,  and  that  now  you  can  scarcely  get 
anything  but  such  coarse  kinds  of  fish  as  are  not  liked  ; and 
she  has  a sister,  a sad  invalid,  to  whom  fish  would  be  a very 
pleasant  and  wholesome  change.  This  is  really  a sad  state  of 
things,  and  here  the  railways  seem  very  likely  to  carry  away 
our  butter,  and  it  is  now  such  a price,  quite  ex[h]orbitant. 
Why  did  I put  an  /i  in  ? Is  it  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  you 
say,  that  ladies  do  not  spell  well  ? A letter  which  I once 
wrote  when  a girl  was  a wonderful  specimen  of  bad  spelling. 


15^/i  May. 

I have  found  such  lovely  passages  in  Vol.  1 this  morning 
that  I am  delighted,  and  have  begun  to  copy  one  of  them. 
You  do  float  in  such  beautiful  things  sometimes  that  you 
make  me  feel  I don’t  know  how  ! 

How  I thank  you  for  ever  having  written  them,  for  though 
late  in  the  day,  they  were  written  for  me,  and  have  at  length 
reached  me  ! 

You  are  so  candid  about  your  age  that  I shall  tell  3^011 
mine  ! I am  astonished  to  find  m^^self  sixty-eight — veiy  near 
the  Psalmist’s  threescore  and  ten.  Much  illness  and  much 
sorrow,  and  then  I woke  up  to  find  myself  old,  and  as  if  I had 
lost  a great  part  of  my  life.  Let  us  hope  it  was  not  all  lost. 

I think  you  can  understand  me  when  I say  that  I have  a 
great  fund  of  love,  and  no  one  to  spend  it  upon,  because 
there  are  not  any  to  whom  I could  give  it  fully,  and  I love 
m3'  pets  so  dearly,  but  I dare  not  and  cannot  enjoy  it  fulty 
because — they  die,  or  get  injured,  and  then  my  misery  is  in- 
tense. I feel  as  if  I could  tell  you  much,  because  your  sym- 
pathy is  so  refined  and  so  tender  and  true.  Cannot  I be  a 
a sort  of  second  mother  to  you  ? I am  sure  the  first  one  was 
often  praying  for  blessings  for  you,  and  in  this,  at  least,  I re- 
semble her. 

Am  I tiresome  writing  all  this?  It  just  came,  and  3'ou 
said  I was  to  write  v/hat  did.  We  have  had  some  nice  rain, 
but  followed  not  by  warmth,  but  a cruel  east  wind. 


104 


HOBTUS  IN0LU8U8. 


ABOUT  WBENS. 

This  year  I have  seen  wrens’  nests  in  three  different  kinds 
of  places— one  built  in  the  angle  of  a doorway,  one  under  a 
bank,  and  a third  hear  the  top  of  a raspberry  bush  ; this  last 
was  so  large  that  when  our  gardener  first  saw  it,  he  thought 
it  w^as  a swarm  of  bees.  It  seems  a pleasure  to  this  active 
bird  to  build  ; he  will  begin  to  build  several  nests  sometimes 
before  he  completes  one  for  Jenny  Wren  to  lay  her  eggs  and 
make  her  nursery.  Think  how  busy  both  he  and  Jenny  are 
when  the  sixteen  young  ones  come  out  of  their  shells — little 
helpless  gaping  things  wanting  feeding  in  their  turns  the  live- 
long summer  day  ! What  hundreds  and  thousands  of  small 
insects  they  devour  ! They  catch  flies  with  good-sized  wings. 
I have  seen  a parent  wren  with  its  beak  so  full  that  the  wings 
stood  out  at  each  side  like  the  whiskers  of  a cat. 

Once  in  America,  in  the  month  of  June,  a mower  hung  up 
his  coat  under  a shed  near  a barn  ; two  or  three  days  passed 
before  he  had  occasion  to  put  it  on  again.  Thrusting  his  arm 
up  the  sleeve  he  found  it  completely  filled  with  something, 
and  on  pulling  out  the  mass  he  found  it  to  be  the  nest  of  a 
wren,  completely  finished  and  lined  with  feathers.  What  a 
pity  that  all  the  labor  of  the  little  pair  had  been  in  vain  ! 
Great  was  the  distress  of  the  birds,  who  vehemently  and 
angrily  scolded  him  for  destroying  their  house  ; happily  it 
was  an  empty  one,  without  either  eggs  or  young  birds. 


HISTORY  OF  A BLACKBIRD. 

We  had  had  one  of  those  summer  storms  which  so  injure 
the  beautiful  flowers  and  the  young  leaves  of  the  trees.  A 
blackbird’s  nest  wdth  young  ones  in  it  was  blown  out  of  the 
ivy  on  the  wall,  and  the  little  ones,  with  the  exception  of  one, 
were  killed  1 The  poor  little  bird  did  not  escape  without  a 
wound  upon  his  head,  and  when  he  was  brought  to  me  it  did 
not  seem  very  likely  that  I should  ever  be  able  to  rear  him  ; 


HORTUS  INGLU8U8. 


105 


but  I could  not  refuse  to  take  in  the  little  helpless  stranger, 
so  I put  him  into  a covered  basket  for  a while. 

I soon  found  that  I had  undertaken  what  was  no  easy  task, 
for  he  required  feeding  so  early  in  a morning  that  I was 
obliged  to  take  him  and  his  bread  crumbs  into  my  bed-room, 
and  jump  up  to  feed  him  as  soon  as  he  began  to  chirp,  which 
he  did  in  very  good  time. 

Then  in  the  daytime  I did  not  dare  to  have  him  in  the  sit- 
ting-room with  me,  because  my  sleek  favorites,  the  cats, 
would  soon  have  devoured  him,  so  I carried  him  up  into  an 
attic,  and  as  he  required  feeding  very  often  in  the  day,  you 
may  imagine  that  I had  quite  enough  of  exercise  in  running- 
up  and  down  stairs. 

But  I was  not  going  to  neglect  the  helpless  thing  after 
once  undertaking  to  nurse  him,  and  I had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  him  thrive  well  upon  his  diet  of  dry-bread  crumbs  and 
a little  scrap  of  raw  meat  occasionally  ; this  last  delicacy,  you 
know,  was  a sort  of  imitation  of  worms  ! 

Very  soon  my  birdie  knew  my  step,  and  though  he  never 
exactly  said  so,  I am  sure  he  thought  it  had  “music  in’t,”  for 
as  soon  as  I touched  the  handle  of  the  door  he  set  up  a shriek 
of  joy  ! 

“The  bird  that  we  nurse  is  the  bird  that  we  love,”  and  I 
soon  loved  Dick.  And  the  love  was  not  all  on  one  side,  for 
my  bonnie  bird  would  sit  upon  my  finger  uttering  complacent 
little  chirps,  and  when  I sang  to  him  in  a low  voice  he  would 
gently  peck  my  hair. 

As  he  grew  on  and  wanted  to  use  his  limbs,  I put  him  into 
a large  wicker  bonnet-basket,  having  taken  out  the  lining  ; it 
made  him  a large,  cheerful,  airy  cage.  Of  course  I had  a 
perch  put  across  it,  and  he  had  plenty  of  white  sand  and  a 
pan  of  water  ; sometimes  I set  his  bath  on  the  floor  of  the 
room,  and  he  delighted  in  bathing  until  he  looked  half- 
drowned  ; then  what  shaking  of  his  feathers,  what  preening 
and  arranging  there  was ! And  how  happy  and  clean  and 
comfortable  he  looked  when  his  toilet  was  completed  ! 

You  may  be  sure  that  I took  him  some  of  the  first  ripe 
currants  and  strawberries,  for  blackbirds  like  fruit,  and  so 


106 


HOBTUS  INGLU8U8. 


do  boys ! When  he  was  fledged  I let  him  out  in  the  room, 
and  so  he  could  exercise  his  wings.  It  is  a curious  fact  that 
if  I went  up  to  him  with  my  bonnet  on  he  did  not  know  me 
at  all,  but  was  in  a state  of  great  alarm. 

Blackbirds  are  wild  birds,  and  do  not  bear  being  kept  in  a 
cage,  not  even  so  well  as  some  other  birds  do ; and  as  this 
bird  grew  up  he  was  not  so  tame,  and  was  rather  restless.  I 
knew  that,  though  I loved  him  so  much,  I ought  not  to  keep 
him  shut  up  against  his  will.  He  was  carried  down  into  the 
garden  while  the  raspberries  were  ripe,  and  allowed  to  fly 
away ; and  I have  never  seen  him  since.  Do  you  wonder 
that  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  he  left? 


m MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 

STUDIES  OF  MOUNTAIN  FORM 
AND  OF  ITS  VISIBLE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OP 


“MODERN  PAINTERS.” 


I 


1 


PREFACE. 


I RECEIVE  at  present  with  increasing  frequency  requests  or 
counsels  from  people  whose  wishes  and  advice  I respect,  for 
the  reprinting  of  “ Modern  Painters.”  When  I formerly  stated 
my  determination  not  to  republish  that  work  in  its  original 
form,  it  was  always  with  the  purpose  of  giving  its  scientihc 
sections  with  farther  illustration  in  “Deucalion  ” and  “Proser- 
pina,” and  extracts  from  those  relating  to  art  and  education  in 
my  Oxford  Lectures.  But  finding,  usually,  for  these  last, 
subjects  more  immediately  interesting  ; and  seeing  that  Deu- 
calion and  Proserpina  have  quite  enough  to  do  in  their  own 
way — for  the  time  they  have  any  chance  of  doing  it  in — I am 
indeed  minded  now  to  reprint  the  three  scientific  sections 
of  “ Modern  Painters  ” in  their  original  terms,  which,  very 
thankfully  I find,  cannot  much  be  bettered,  for  Avhat  they 
intend  or  attempt.  The  scientific  portions,  divided  prospec- 
tively, in  the  first  volume,  into  four  sections,  w^ere  meant  to 
define  the  essential  forms  of  sky,  earth,  w^ater,  and  vegetation  ; 
but  finding  that  I had  not  the  mathematical  knowledge  re- 
quired for  the  analysis  of  wave-action,  the  chapters  on  Sea- 
painting were  never  finished,  the  materials  for  them  being* 
partly  used  in  the  “Harbors  of  England,”  and  the  rest  of  the 
design  remitted  till  I could  learn  more  dynamics.  But  it 
was  never  abandoned,  and  the  corrections  already  given  in 
“ Deucalion  ” of  the  errors  of  Agassiz  and  Tyndall  on  the 
glacier  theory  are  based  on  studies  of  wave-motion  v hich  I 
hope  still  to  complete  the  detail  of  in  that  work. 

My  reprints  from  “ Modern  Painters  ” will  therefore  fall 
only  into  three  divisions,  on  the  origin  of  form  in  clouds, 
mountains,  and  trees.  They  will  be  given  in  the  pages  and 


110 


PREFACE. 


type  now  chosen  for  my  Oxford  Lectures  ; and  the  two  lect- 
ures on  existing  Storm-cloud  already  published  will  form  a 
proper  introduction  to  the  cloud-studies  of  former  times,  of 
which  the  first  number  is  already  in  the  press.  In  like 
manner,  the  following  paper,  prepared  to  be  read  before  the 
Mineralogical  Society  on  the  occasion  of  their  meeting  in  Ed- 
inburgh, this  year,  and  proposing,  in  brief  abstract,  the  ques- 
tions which  are  at  the  root  of  rock-science,  may  not  unfitly 
introduce  the  chapters  of  geological  inquiry,  begun  at  the 
foot  of  the  Matterhorn  thirty  years  ago,  inquiries  which  were 
the  proper  sequel  of  those  instituted  by  Saussure,  and  from 
which  the  fury  of  investigation  in  extinct  zoology  has  since  so 
far  diverted  the  attention  of  mineralogists,  that  I have  been 
virtually  left  to  pursue  them  alone ; not  -without  some  re- 
sults, for  which,  fortified  as  they  are  by  the  recent  advance 
of  rock-chemistry,  I might  claim,  did  I care  to  claim,  the 
dignity  of  Discoveries.  For  the  separate  enumeration  of 
these,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  postscript  to  the  opening- 
paper. 

The  original  wood-cuts  will  all  be  used  in  this  edition,  but 
in  order  not  to  add  to  the  expense  of  the  republished  text,  I 
have  thought  it  best  that  such  of  the  steel  plates  as  are  still 
in  a state  to  give  fair  impressions,  should  be  printed  and 
bound  apart ; purchasable  either  collectively  or  in  separate 
parts,  illustrative  of  the  three  several  sections  of  text.  These 
Avill  be  advertised  when  ready. 

The  text  of  the  old  book,  as  in  the  already  ■ reprinted 
second  volume,  will  be  in  nothing  changed,  and  only  occa- 
sionallj^  explained  or  amplified  by  notes  in  brackets. 

It  is  also  probable  that  a volume  especially  devoted  to  the 
subject  of  Education  may  be  composed  of  passages  gathered 
out  of  the  entire  series  of  my  works;  and  since  the  parts  of 
“ Modern  Painters  ” bearing  on  the  principles  of  art  will  be 
incorporated  in  the  school  lectures  connected  with  my  duty  at 
Oxford,  whatever  is  worth  preservation  in  the  whole  book 
will  be  thus  placed  at  the  command  of  the  public. 

Brantwood, 

\^th  Reptemher^  1884. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

OF  THE  DISTINCTIONS  OF  FORM  IN  SILICA, 

{Read  before  the  Mineralogical  Society^  July  24,  1884.) 

As  this  paper,  by  the  courtesy  of  the  secretaries,  stands 
first  on  the  list  of  those  to  be  read  at  the  meeting,  I avail  my- 
self of  the  privilege  thus  granted  me  of  congratulating  the 
Society  on  this  occasion  of  its  meeting  in  the  capital  of  a 
country  which  is’itself  one  magnificent  mineralogical  speci- 
men, reaching  from  Cheviot  to  Cape  Wrath  ; thus  gathering 
into  the  most  convenient  compass,  and  presenting  in  the 
most  instructive  forms,  examples  of  nearly  every  mineralogi- 
cal process  and  phenomenon  which  have  taken  place  in  the 
construction  of  the  world. 

May  I be  permitted,  also,  to  felicitate  myself,  on  the  per- 
mission thus  given  me,  to  bring  before  the  Mineralogical  So- 
ciety a question  which,  in  Edinburgh,  of  all  cities  of  the 
world,  it  should  be  easiest  to  solve,  namely,  the  methods  of 
the  construction  and  painting  of  a Scotch  pebble  ? 

I am  the  more  happy  in  this  unexpected  privilege,  because, 
though  an  old  member  of  the  Geological  Society,  my  geolog- 
ical observations  have  always  been  as  completely  ignored  by 
that  Society,  as  my  remarks  on  political  economy  by  the 
Directors  of  the  Bank  of  England  ; and  although  I have  re- 
peatedly solicited  from  them  the  charity  of  their  assistance  in 
so  small  a matter  as  the  explanation  of  an  agate  stone  on  the 
forefinger  of  an  alderman,  they  still,  as  I stated  the  case  in 


112 


JiT  M0NTIBU8  8 AN  OTIS, 


closing  my  first  volume  of  Deucalion,”  discourse  on  the  ca- 
tastrophes of  chaos,  and  the  processes  of  creation,  without 
being  able  to  tell  why  a slate  splits,  or  how  a pebble  is  col- 
ored. 

Pebble — or  crystal ; here  in  Scotland  the  main  questions 
respecting  these  two  main  forms  of  silica  are  put  to  us,  wnth 
a close  solicitude,  by  the  beautiful  conditions  of  agate,  and 
the  glowing  colors  of  the  Cairngorm,  which  have  always  varie- 
gated and  illuminated  the  favorite  jewelry  of  Scottish  laird 
and  lassie. 

May  I hope,  with  especial  reference  to  the 

“ favorite  gem 

Of  Scotland’s  mountain  diadem,” 

to  prevail  on  some  Scottish  mineralogist  to  take  up  the 
hitherto  totally  neglected  subject  of  the  relation  of  color  in 
minerals  to  their  state  of  substance  : why,  for  instance,  large 
and  well-developed  quartz  crystals  are  frequently  topaz 
color  or  smoke  color, — never  rose-color  ; while  massive  quartz 
may  be  rose-color,  and  pure  white  or  gray,  but  never  smoke 
color; — again,  why  amethyst  quartz  may  continually,  as  at 
Schemnitz  and  other  places,  be  infinitely  complex  and  multi- 
plex in  crystallization,  but  never  warped  ; while  smoky  quartz 
may  be  continually  found  warped,  but  never,  in  the  amethys- 
tine way,  multiplex  ; — why,  again,  smoky  quartz  and  Cairn- 
gorm are  continually  found  in  short  crystals,  but  never  in 
long  slender  ones, — as,  to  take  instance  in  another  mineral, 
white  beryl  is  usually  short  or  even  tabular,  and  green  beryl 
long,  almost  in  proportion  to  its  purity  ? 

And,  for  the  better  solution,  or  at  least  proposition,  of  the 
many  questions,  such  as  these,  hitherto  undealt  with  by 
science,  might  I also  hope  that  the  efforts  of  the  Mineralogi- 
cal  Society  may  be  directed,  among  other  quite  feasible  ob- 
jects not  yet  attained,  to  the  formation  of  a museum  of  what 
might  be  called  mineral-geology,  showing  examples  of  all 
familiar  minerals  in  association  with  their  native  rocks,  on  a 
sufficiently  large  and  intelligible  scale.  There  may  be,  per- 
haps, by  this  time,  in  the  museum  of  Edinburgh, — but  there 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


113 


is  not  in  the  British  Museum,  nor  have  I ever  myself  seen, — 
either  a specimen  of  pure  Cairngorm  in  the  gangue,  or  a 
block  of  trap  containing  agates  of  really  high  quality,  whether 
from  Scotland,  Germany,  or  India. 

Knowing  the  value  of  time  to  the  meeting,  I leave  this,  to 
my  thinking,  deeply  important  subject  of  the  encouragement 
of  geognostic  mineralogy,  to  their  own  farther  consideration  ; 
and  pass  to  a point  of  terminology  which  is  of  extreme  sig- 
nificance in  the  study  of  siliceous  minerals,  namely,  the  de- 
sirableness, and  I should  myself  even  say  the  necessity,  of 
substituting  the  term  “ spheroidal  ” for  “ reniform”  in  minera- 
logical  description.  Eveiy  so-called  “ kidney-shaped  ’’mineral 
is  an  aggregate  of  spheroidal  crystallizations,  and  it  would  be 
just  as  rational  and  elegant  to  call  sea-foam  kidney-shaped,  as 
to  call  chalcedony  so.  The  word  “ Botryoidal  ” is  yet  more 
objectionable,  because  it  is  wholly  untrue.  There  are  many 
minerals  that  resemble  kidneys  ; but  there  is  no  substance 
in  the  whole  mineral  kingdom  that  resembles  a bunch  of 
grapes.  The  pisolitic  aggregations  which  a careless  observer 
might  think  grape-like,  are  only  like  grape-shoi,  and  lie  in 
heaps,  not  clusters. 

But  the  change  I would  propose  is  not  a matter  of  mere 
accuracy  or  elegance  in  description.  For  w'ant  of  observing 
that  the  segmental  surfaces  of  so-called  reniform  and  botryoi- 
dal minerals  are  spheroidal,  the  really  crystalline  structure 
producing  that  external  form  has  been  overlooked,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, minerals  have  been  continually  described  either  as 
amorphous,  or  as  mixtures  of  different  substances,  which  are 
neither  formless  nor  mingled,  but  are  absolutely  defined  in 
structure,  and  absolutely  homogeneous  in  substance. 

There  are  at  least  six  states  of  siliceous  substance  which  are 
thus  entirely  distinct, — flint,  jasper,  chalcedony,  hyalite,  opal, 
and  quartz.  They  are  only  liable  to  be  confused  with  each 
other  in  bad  specimens  ; each  has  its  own  special  and  separate 
character,  and  needs  peculiar  circumstances  for  its  production 
and  development.  The  careful  history  of  the  forms  of  these 
six  minerals,  and  the  careful  collection  of  the  facts  respecting 
the  mode  of  their  occurrence,  would  require  a volume  as  large 
8 


114 


m M0NTIBU8  8ANGTI8. 


as  any  that  are  usually  issued  by  way  of  complete  systems  of 
miueralogy.  Whereas,  sufficient  account  is  usually  supposed 
to  be  rendered  of  them  in  a few  sentences,  and,  moreover, 
every  sentence  of  these  concise  abstracts  usually  contains,  or 
implies,  an  unchallenged  fallacy. 

I take,  for  example,  from  the  account  of  “ chalcedonic  vari- 
eties of  quartz  ” given  in  Dana’s  octavo  of  456  close-printed 
pages  (Trubner,  1879), — the  entire  account  occupies  no  more 
than  a page  and  three  lines, — the  following  sentences : 

“ Chalcedony  oftens  occurs  lining  or  filling  cavities  in  amyg- 
daloidal  rocks,  and  sometimes  in  other  kinds.  These  cavities 
are  nothing  but  little  caverns,  into  which  siliceous  waters 
have  filtrated  at  some  period.  The  stalactites  are  ‘ icicles  ’ of 
chalcedony,  hung  from  the  roof  of  the  cavity. 

“ Agate,  a variegated  chalcedony.  The  colors  are  distrib- 
uted in  clouds,  spots,  or  concentric  lines.  These  lines  take 
straight,  circular,  or  zigzag  forms,  and  when  the  last,  it  is 
called  fortification  agate,  so  named  from  the  resemblance  to 
the  angular  outlines  of  a fortification.  These  lines  are  the 
edges  of  layers  of  chalcedony,  and  these  layers  are  successive 
deposits  during  the  process  of  its  formation. 

“ Mocha  stone,  or  moss  agate,  is  a brownish  agate,  consist- 
ing of  chalcedony  with  dentritic  or  moss-like  delineations,  of 
an  opaque  j^ello wish-brown  color.” 

Now,  with  respect  to  the  first  of  these  statements,  it  is  true 
that  cavities  in  amygdaloidal  rocks  are  nothing  but  little  cav- 
erns, just  as  caverns  in  any  rocks  are  nothing  but  large  cavi- 
ties. But  the  rocks  are  called  “ amygdaloidal,”  because  their 
cavities  are  in  the  shape  of  almonds,  and  there  must  be  a 
reason  for  this  almond  shape,  which  will  bear  on  the  struct- 
ure of  their  contents.  It  is  also  true  that  in  the  rocks  of  Ice- 
land there  are  cavities  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony". 
But  I believe  no  member  of  this  Society  has  ever  seen  a cavity 
in  Scotch  trap  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony ; nor  a 
Scotch  pebble  which  gave  the  slightest  evidence  of  the  direc- 
tion of  its  infiltration. 

The  second  sentence  is  still  more  misleading,  for  in  no 
sense  is  it  true  that  agate  is  a variegated  chalcedony.”  It  is 


IN  MONTIBUS  8ANGTI8. 


115 


chalcedony  separated  into  bands  of  various  consistence,  and 
associated  with  parallel  bands  of  jasper  and  quartz.  And 
whether  these  bands  are  successive  deposits  during  the  pro- 
cess of  formation  or  not,  must  be  questionable  until  we  pro- 
duce the  resemblance  of  an  agate  by  a similar  operation, 
which  I would  very  earnestly  request  some  of  the  members 
of  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  do,  before  allowing’  state- 
ments of  this  positive  kind  to  be  made  on  the  subject  in  pop- 
ular text-books. 

The  third  sentence  confounds  Mocha  stone  with  moss 
agate,  they  being  entirely  different  minerals.  The  delinea- 
tions in  Mocha  stone  are  dendritic,  and  produced  by  mechan- 
ical dissemination  of  metallic  oxides,  easily  imitable  by  drop- 
ping earthy  colors  into  paste.  But  moss  agates  are  of  two 
kinds,  brown  and  green,  the  one  really  like  moss,  the  other 
filiform  and  like  seaweed  ; and  neither  of  them  is  at  present 
explicable  or  imitable. 

The  inaccuracy  of  the  statements  thus  made  in  so  elaborate 
a work  on  mineralogy  as  Dana’s,  may,  I think,  justify  me  in 
asking  the  attention  of  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  tbe  dis- 
tinctions in  the  forms  of  silica  which  they  will  find  illustrated 
by  the  chosen  examples  from  my  own  collection,  placed  on 
the  table  for  their  inspection.  I place,  first,  side  by  side, 
No.  1,  the  rudest,  and  No.  7,  the  most  delicate,  conditions  of 
pure  chalcedony ; the  first,  coarsely  spheroidal,  and  associ- 
ated with  common  flint ; the  second,  filiform,  its  threads  and 
rods  combining  into  plates, — each  rod,  on  close  examination, 
being  seen  to  consist  of  associated  spheroidal  concretions. 

Next  to  these  I place  No.  2,  a common  small-globed  chal- 
cedony formed  on  the  common  quartzite  of  South  England, 
wuth  opaque  concentric  zones  developing  themselves  subse- 
quentl}^  over  its  translucent  masses.  I have  not  the  slightest 
idea  how  any  of  these  three  specimens  can  have  been  formed, 
and  simply  lay  them  before  the  Society  in  hope  of  receiving 
some  elucidatory  suggestions  about  them. 

My  ignorance  need  not  have  remained  so  abject,  had  my 
other  work  left  me  leisure  to  follow  out  the  deeply  interest- 
ing experiments  instituted  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Pankhurst  and  Mr. 


116 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


J.  I’Anson,  of  which  the  first  results,  being  indeed  the  begin- 
ning of  the  true  history  of  silica,  were  published  by  those 
gentlemen  in  the  Mlnei'alogical  Magazine  for  1882.  I have 
laid  their  paper,  kindly  then  communicated  to  me,  on  the 
table,  for  immediate  comparison  of  its  plates  with  the  speci- 
mens, and  I have  arranged  the  first  two  groups  of  these, 
adopting  from  that  paper  the  terms  exogenous  and  endogen- 
ous, for  the  two  great  families  of  agates,  so  as  to  illustrate 
the  principal  statements  made  in  its  pages. 

It  would  materially  facilitate  the  pursuit  of  their  discov- 
eries if  some  of  the  members  ^of  the  Society  would  register 
and  describe  the  successive  phenomena  of  crystallization  in 
any  easily  soluble  or  fusible  minerals.  The  history  of  a min- 
eral is  not  given  by  ascertainment  of  the  number  or  the  an- 
gles of  the  planes  of  its  crystals,  but  by  ascertaining*  the 
manner  in  which  those  crystals  originate,  increase,  and  asso- 
ciate. The  ordinary  mineralogist  is  content  to  tell  us  that 
gold,  silver,  and  diamond  are  all  cubic  ; — it  is  for  the  miner- 
alogist of  the  future  to  say  why  gold  associates  its  countless 
cubes  into  arborescent  laminse,  and  silver  into  capillary 
wreaths  ; while  diamond  condemns  its  every  octahedron  to 
monastic  life,  and  never,  except  by  accident,  permits  one  of 
them  to  crystallize  beside  another. 

At  pages  5 and  6 of  Mr.  J.  I’Anson’s  paper  wdll  be  found 
explanations,  more  or  less  complete,  of  the  forms  which  I 
have  called  folded  “ agates  ” aud  “lake”  agates,  reaching  to 
No.  40.  The  specimens  from  40  to  60  then  illustrate  the 
conditions  of  siliceous  action  which  I am  still  alone  among 
modern  mineralogists  in  my  mode  of  interpreting. 

The  minor  points  of  debate  concerning  them  are  stated  in 
the  descriptions  of  each  in  the  catalogue  ; but  there  are  some 
examples  among  them  from  which  branch  lines  of  observa- 
tion leading  far  beyond  the  history  of  siliceous  pebbles.  To 
these  I venture  here  to  direct  your  special  attention. 

No.  3 is  a fragment  of  black  flint  on  which  blue  chalcedony 
is  deposited  as  a film  extending  itself  in  circles,  exactlj’’  like 
the  growth  of  some  lichens.  I have  never  seen  this  form  of 
chalcedony  solidify  from  circles  into  globes,  and  it  is  evident 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


117 


that;  for  this  condition  we  must  use  the  term  “ cycloidal,”  in- 
ste.'id  of  “ spheroidal.”  I need  not  point  out  that  “ reniform  ” 
would  be  here  entirely  absurd. 

This  apparently  common  specimen  (and,  as  far  as  regards 
frequency  of  occurrence,  indeed  common  enough)  is  never- 
theless one  of  the  most  profoundly  instructive  of  the  whole 
series.  It  is,  to  begin  with,  a perfect  type  of  the  finest  possi- 
ble flint,  properly  so  called.  Its  surface,  eminently  charac- 
teristic of  the  forms  of  flint-concretioa,  is  literally  a white 
dust  of  organic  fragments,  while  the  narrow  fissure  which  has 
opened  in  it,  apparently  owing  to  the  contraction  of  its  mass, 
is  besprinkled  and  studded,  as  closely,  with  what  might  not 
unfitly  be  called  pearl-chalcedony,  or  seed-chalcedony,  or 
hail-chalcedony  ; for  seen  through  the  lens  it  exactl}^  resem- 
bles the  grains  of  minute  hail,  sticking  together  as  they  melt ; 
in  places,  forming  very  solid  crests — in  others,  and  esj)ecially 
in  the  rifted  fissure,  stalactites,  possibly  more  or  less  vertical 
to  the  plane  in  which  the  flint  lay. 

In  No.  5 the  separation  into  concentric  films  is  a condition 
peculiar  to  flint-chalcedony,  and  never  found  in  true  agates. 

In  No.  G (chalcedon}'’  in  stalactitic  coats,  on  amethyst)  the 
variation  of  the  stalactites  in  direction,  and  their  modes  of 
agglutination,  are  alike  unintelligible. 

No.  8 is  only  an  ordinary  specimen  of  chalcedony  on 
haematite,  in  short,  closely  combined  vertical  stalactites,  each 
with  a central  stalactite  of  black  iron-oxide  ; but  it  is  to  be 
observed,  in  comparing  it  with  No.  6,  that  when  chalcedony 
is  thus  formed  on  rods  of  heematite,  the  stalactites  are  almost 
unexceptionally  vertical,  and  quite  straight.  The  radiate 
ridge  at  one  side  of  this  example  is,  however,  entirely  anoma- 
lous. 

No.  9.  The  succeeding  specimen,  though  small,  is  a notable 
one,  consisting  of  extremely  minute  and  delicate  shells  or 
crusts  of  spheroidal  hsematite,  establishing  themselves  in  the 
heart  of  Cjuartz.  I have  no  idea  of  the  method,  or  successions 
in  time,  of  this  process.  These  I leave  to  the  consideration 
of  the  Society,  but  I point  to  the  specimen  as  exquisitely  ex- 
liibiting  the  laws  of  true  spheroidal  crystallization,  in  a min- 


118 


IN  MONT  I BUS  SANCTIS. 


eral  wliicli  both  in  its  massive  and  crystalline  state  is  continu- 
ally associated  with  quartz.  And  it  cannot  but  be  felt  that 
this  spheroidal  structure  of  hsematite  could  as  little  be  ex- 
plained by  calling  or  supposing  it  a mixture  of  micaceous 
hsematite  with  amorphous  hmmatite,  as  that  of  chalcedony  b}" 
calling  it  a mixture  of  hexagonal  with  amorphous  quartz. 

No.  10.  Next  follows  a beautiful  and  perfectly  character- 
istic example  of  massively  spheroidal  agate,  in  which  first 
gray  and  then  white  chalcedony,  peculiarly  waved  and  faulted 
by  a tendency  to  become  quartz,  surrounds  earthy  centres, 
and  is  externally  coated  with  pure  quartz.  And  here  I must 
ask  the  Society  to  ratify  for  me  the  general  law,  that  in  all 
solid  globular  or  stalactitic  conditions  of  chalcedony,  if  any 
foreign  substance  occurs  mixed  with  them,  it  is  thrown  to 
their  centres,  while  the  pure  quartz  is  always  found  on  the 
outside.^  On  the  other  hand,  the  usual  condition  of  geodes 
of  chalcedony  found  in  the  cavities  of  rocks,  is  to  purify 
themselves  toward  the  interior,  and  either  coat  themselves 
with  quartz  on  the  interior  surface,  or  entirely  till  the  central 
cavity  with  quartz. 

No.  46  is  a most  literally  amygdaloidal — almond-shaped — 
mass  of  silica  ; only,  not  poured  into  an  almond-shaped  cav- 
ity in  basalt,  but  gathered  into  a knot  out  of  Jurassic  lime- 
stone, as  flint  is  out  of  chalk. 

It  is,  however,  banded  quite  otherwise  than  flint,  the  bands 
giving  occasion  to  its  form,  and  composed  of  different  sub- 
stances. Whereas  those  of  flint  are  of  the  flint  itself  in  dif- 
ferent states,  and  always  independent  of  external  form. 

Secondly.  It  seems  to  me  a question  of  considerable  inter- 
est, why  the  coarse  substance  of  flint  and  of  this  dull  horn- 
stone  can  be  stained  with  black,  but  not  chalcedony,  nor 
quartz.  The  blackest  so-called  quartz  is  only  a clear  umber, 
and  opaque  quartz  is  never  so  stained  at  all.  Natural  black 
onyx  is  of  extreme  rarity,  the  onyx  of  commerce  being  arti- 
iicialty  stained  ; the  black  band  in  the  lake  agate.  No.  32,  is 


* It  is  to  be  noticed,  also  tliat  often  in  stalactitic  or  tnbnlar  concre* 
tions  the  purest  chalcedony  immediately  surrounds  the  centre. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS, 


119 


probably  bitumiDous.  And  in  connection  with  this  part  of 
the  inquiry,  it  seems  to  be  the  peculiar  duty  of  the  mineralo- 
gist to  explain  the  gradual  darkening  of  the  limestones  tow- 
ard the  central  metamorphic  chains. 

Thirdly,  and  principally.  This  stone  gives  us  an  example 
of  waved  or  contorted  strata  which  are  unquestionably  pro- 
duced by  concretion  and  partial  crystallization,  not  compres- 
sion, or  any  kind  of  violence.  I shall  take  occasion,  in  con- 
cluding, to  insist  farther  on  the  extreme  importance  of  this 
character. 

The  specimen  was  found  by  my  good  publisher,  Mr.  Allen, 
on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Saleve  ; and  it  is  extremely  de- 
sirable that  geologists  in  Savoy  should  obtain  and  describe 
more  pebbles  of  the  same  sort,  this  one  being,  as  far  as  my 
knowledge  goes,  hitherto  unique. 

71-77.  These  seven  examples  of  opal  have  been  chosen 
merely  to  illustrate  farther  the  modes  of  siliceous  solution 
and  segregation,  not  with  that  of  illustrating  opal  itself, — 
every  one  of  the  seven  examples  presenting  phenomena  more 
or  less  unusual.  The  two  larger  blocks,  71,  72  (Australian), 
give  examples  in  one  or  two  places  of  obscurely  nodular  and 
hollow  concretion,  before  unknown  in  opal,  but  of  which  a 
wonderful  specimen,  partly  with  a vitreous  superficial  glaze, 
has  been  sent  me  by  Mr.  Henry  Yvillett,  of  Arnold  House, 
Brighton,  a most  accurate  investigator  of  the  history  of  silica. 
It  is  to  be  carefully  noted,  however,  that  the  moment  the 
opal  shows  a tendency  to  nodular  concretion,  its  colors 
vanish. 

No.  73  is  sent  only  as  an  example  of  the  normal  state  of 
Australian  opal,  disseminated  in  a rock  of  which  it  seems 
partly  to  have  opened  for  itself  the  shapeless  spaces  it  fills. 
In  No.  71,  it  may  be  observed,  there  is  a tendency  in  them  to 
become  tabular.  No.  74,  an  apparently  once  fluent  state  of 
opal  in  veins,  shows  in  perfection  the  arrangement  in  straight 
zones  transverse  to  the  vein,  which  I pointed  out  in  my  earl- 
iest papers  on  silica  as  a constant  distinctive  character  in 
opal-crystallization.  No.  75  is  the  only  example  I ever  saw 
of  stellar  crystallization  in  opal.  No,  76,  from  the  same 


120 


IN  MONT  I BUS  SANCTIS. 


locality,  is  like  a lake  agate  associated  with  a brecciate  con- 
dition of  the  g-angue  ; while  No.  77,  though  small,  will  be 
found  an  extremely  interesting  example  of  hydrophane.  The 
blue  bloom  seen  in  some  lights  on  it,  when  dry,  as  opposed 
to  the  somewhat  vulgar  vivacity  of  its  colors  when  wet,  is  a 
perfect  example  of  the  opal’s  faculty  of  selecting  for  its  lustre 
the  most  lovely  combinations  of  the  separated  rays.  A 
diamond,  or  a piece  of  fissured  quartz,  reflects  indiscrimin- 
ately all  the  colors  of  the  prism ; an  opal,  only  those  which 
are  most  delightful  to  human  sight  and  mental  association. 

78-80.  These  three  geological  specimens  are  placed  at  the 
term  of  the  series,  that  the  importance  of  the  structure 
already  illustrated  by  No.  46  may  be  finally  represented  to 
the  Society  ; No.  46  being  an  undulated  chalcedony  ; No.  78 
an  undulated  jasper  ; No.  79,  a hornstone  ; and  No.  80  a fully 
developed  gneiss. 

I have  no  hesitation  in  affirming, — though  it  is  not  usual 
with  me  to  affirm  anything  I have  not  seen,  and  seen  close, — 
that  every  one  of  these  types  of  undulated  structure  has  been 
produced  by  crystallization  only,  and  absolutely  without  com- 
pression or  violence.  But  the  transition  from  the  contorted 
gneiss  wdiicli  has  been  formed  by  crystallization  onh%  to  that 
which  has  been  subjected  to  the  forces  of  upheaval,  or  of 
lateral  compression,  is  so  gradual  and  so  mysterious,  that  all 
the  chemistry  and  geology  of  modern  science  is  hitherto  at 
fault  in  its  explanation  ; and  this  meeting  w^ould  confer  a 
memorable  benefit  on  future  observers  by  merely  determining 
for  them  the  conditions  of  the  problem.  Up  to  a certain 
point,  however,  these  were  determined  by  Saussure,  from 
whose  frequent  and  always  acutely  distinct  descriptions  of 
contorted  rocks  I select  the  following,  because  it  refers  to  a 
scene  of  which  the  rock  structure  was  a subject  of  constant 
interest  to  the  painter  Turner  ; the  ravine,  namely,  by  which, 
on  the  Italian  side  of  the  St.  Gothard,  the  Ticino  escapes 
from  the  valley  of  Airolo. 

“At  a league  from  Faido  the  traveller  ascends  by  a road 
carried  on  a cornice  above  the  Ticino,  which  precipitates  itself 
between  the  rocks  with  the  greatest  violence.  I made  the 


IN  MONTIBUS  HANOT  IS. 


121 


ascent  on  foot,  in  order  to  examine  with  care  the  beautiful 
rocks,  worthy  of  all  the  attention  of  a rock-lover.  The  veins 
of  that  granite  form  in  many  places  redoubled  zigzags,  pre- 
cisely like  the  ancient  tapestries  known  as  point  of  Hungary, 
ai]d  there  it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the  veins  of  the 
stone  are,  or  are  not,  parallel  to  the  beds ; while  finalty  I ob- 
served several  beds  which  in  the  middle  of  their  thickness 
appeared  filled  with  veins  in  zigzag,  while  near  their  borders 
they  were  arranged  all  in  straight  lines.  This  observation 
proves  that  the  zig-zags  are  the  effect  of  crystallization,  and 
not  that  of  a compression  of  the  beds  when  they  were  in  a 
state  of  softness.  In  effect,  the  middle  of  a bed  could  not  be 
pushed  together  (‘refoule  ’)  unless  the  upper  and  lower  parts 
of  it  were  pushed  at  the  same  time.” 

This  conclusive  remark  of  Saussure  renders  debate  impos- 
sible respecting  the  cause  of  the  contortions  of  gneiss  on  a 
small  scale  ; and  a very  few  experiments  with  clay,  dough,  or 
any  other  ductile  substance,  such  as  those  of  which  I have 
figured  the  results  in  the  Vlth  plate  of  “ Deucalion,”  will 
prove,  what  otherwise  is  evident  on  sufficient  reflection,  tliat 
minutely  rhythmic  undulations  of  beds  cannot  be  obtained 
by  compression  on  a large  scale.  But  I am  myself  prepared 
to  go  much  farther  than  this.  During  half  a century  of 
various  march  among  the  Alps,  I never  saw  the  gneiss  yet, 
which  I could  believe  to  have  been  wrinkled  by  pressure,  and 
so  far  am  I disposed  to  carry  this  denial  of  external  force, 
that  I live  in  hopes  of  hearing  the  Matterhorn  itself,  whose 
contorted  beds  I engraved  thirty  years  ago  in  the  fourth 
volume  of  “Modern  Painters  ” (the  book  is  laid  on  Ihe  table, 
open  at  the  plate),  pronounced  by  the  Mineralogical  Society 
to  be  nothing  else  than  a large  gneissitic  crystal,  curiously 
cut ! 

Whether  this  hope  be  vain  or  not,  I believe  it  will  soon  be 
felt  by  the  members  of  this  Society,  that  an  immense  field  of 
observation  is  opened  to  them  by  recent  chemistry,  peculiarly 
their  own:  and  that  mineralogy,  instead  of  being  merely  the 
servant  of  geology,  must  be  utimately  her  guide.  No  move- 
ment of  rocks  on  a large  scale  can  ever  be  explained  until  we 


122 


IN  M0NTIBU8  SANCTIS. 


understand  rightly  the  formation  of  a quartz  vein,  and  the 
growth,  to  take  the  most  familiar  of  fusible  minerals,  of  an 
ice-crystal.* 

And  I would  especially  plead  with  the  younger  members  of 
the  Society,  that  they  should  quit  themselves  of  the  idea  that 
they  need  large  laboratories,  fine  microscopes,  or  rare  min- 
erals, for  the  effective  pursuit  of  their  science.  A quick  eye, 
a candid  mind,  and  an  earnest  heart,  are  all  the  microscopes 
and  laboratories  which  any  of  us  need  ; and  with  a little  claj^ 
sand,  salt,  and  sugar  a man  may  find  out  more  of  the  methods 
of  geological  phenomenon  than  ever  were  known  to  Sir 
Charles  Lyell.  Of  the  interest  and  entertainment  of  such 
unpretending  science  I hope  the  children  of  this  generation 
may  know  more  than  their  fathers,  and  that  the  study  of  the 
Earth,  which  hitherto  has  shown  them  little  more  than  the 
monsters  of  a chaotic  past,  may  at  last  interpret  for  them  the 
beautiful  work  of  the  creative  present,  and  lead  them  day  by 
day  to  find  a loveliness,  till  then  un thought  of,  in  the  rock, 
and  a value,  till  then  uncounted,  in  the  gem. 


POSTSCKIPT  TO  CHAPTER  I. 

I believe  that  one  of  the  causes  which  has  prevented  my  writings  on 
subjects  of  science  from  obtaining  the  influence  with  the  public  which 
they  have  accorded  to  those  on  art,  though  precisely  the  same  faculties 
of  eye  and  mind  are  concerned  in  the  analysis  of  natural  and  of  picto- 
rial forms,  may  have  been  my  constant  practice  of  teaching  by  question 
rather  than  assertion.  So  far  as  I am  able,  I will  henceforward  mend 
this  fault  as  T best  may  ; beginning  here  with  the  assertion  of  the  four 
facts  for  which,  being  after  long  observation  convinced  of  them,  I claim 
now,  as  I said  in  the  Preface,  the  dignity  of  Discoveries. 

I.  That  a large  number  of  agates,  and  other  siliceous  substances, 
hitherto  supposed  to  be  rolled  pebbles  in  a conglomerate  paste,  are  in 
trutli  crystalline  secretions  out  of  that  paste  in  situ,  as  garnets  out  of 
mica-slate. 

II.  That  a large  number  of  agates,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  formed  by 


* A translation  into  English  of  Dr.  Schumacher’s  admirable  essay,  Die 
Krystallisation  des  Eises,  Leipzig,  1844,  is  extremely  desirable. 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


123 


broken  fragments  of  older  agate,  cemented  by  a gelatinous  chalcedony, 
are  indeed  secretions  out  of  a siliceous  fluid  containing  miscellaneous 
elements,  and  their  apparent  fractures  are  indeed  produced  by  the 
same  kind  of  tranquil  division  which  terminates  the  bands  in  banded 
flints, 

III.  That  the  contortions  in  gneiss  and  other  metamorphic  rocks,  con- 
stantly ascribed  by  geologists  to  pressure,  are  only  modes  of  crytalliza- 
tion. 

And  IV.  That  many  of  the  faults  and  contortions  produced  on  a large 
scale  in  metamorphic  rocks  are  owing  to  the  quiet  operation  of  similar 
causes. 

These  four  principles,  as  aforesaid,  I have  indeed  worked  out  and 
discovered  for  myself,  not  in  hasty  rivalry  with  other  mineralogists, 
but  continually  laying  before  them  what  evidence  I had  noted,  and 
praying  them  to  carry  forward  the  inquiry  themselves.  Finding  they 
would  not,  I liave  given  much  time  this  year  to  the  collection  of  the 
data  in  my  journals,  and  to  the  arrangement  of  various  collections  of 
siliceous  and  metallic  minerals,  illustrating  such  phenomena,  of  which 
the  primary  one  is  that  just  completed  and  catalogued  in  the  British 
Museum  (Nat.  Hist.),  instituting  there,  by  the  permission  of  the  Trus- 
tees, the  description  of  specimens  by  separate  numbers  ; the  next  in 
importance  is  that  at  St.  George’s  Museum  in  Sheffield  ; the  third  is  one 
which  I presented  this  spring  to  the  Museum  of  Kirkcudbright ; the 
fourth  that  placed  at  St.  David’s  School,  Reigate  ; and  a fifth  is  in 
course  of  arrangement  for  the  Mechanics’  Institute  here  at  Coniston  ; 
the  sixth,  described  in  the  preceding  chapter,  may  probably,  with  some 
modification,  be  placed  at  Edinburgh,  but  remains  for  the  present  at 
Brantwood,  with  unchanged  numbers. 

The  six  catalogues  describing  these  collections  will  enable  any  stu- 
dent to  follow  out  the  history  of  siliceous  minerals  with  reference  to  the 
best  possible  cabinet  examples  ; but  for  a guide  to  their  localities  and 
the  modes  of  their  occurrence,  he  will  find  the  following  extracts  from 
Pinkerton's  “ Petralogy,”  * more  useful  than  anything  in  modern 
books;  and  I am  entirely  happy  to  find  that  my  above-claimed  discov- 
eries were  all  anticipated  by  him,  and  are,  by  his  close  descriptions,  in 
all  points  confirmed.  His  general  term  “ Glutenites,”  for  stones  ap- 
parently formed  of  cemented  fragments,  entirely  deserves  restoration 
and  future  acceptance. 

“The  division  of  glutenites  into  bricias  and  pudding-stones,  the 
former  consisting  of  angular  fragments,  the  latter  of  round  or  oval  peb- 


* Two  vols.  8vo,  Cochrane  dr  Co.,  Fleet  Street,  1811.  A quite  invaluable 
book  for  clearness  of  description,  usefulness  of  suggestion,  and  extent  of  geog- 
nostic reference.  It  has  twenty  beautiful  little  vignettes  also,  which  are 
models  of  steel  engraving. 


124: 


m MON  TIB  us  SANCTIS. 


bles,  would  not  be  unadvisable,  were  it  in  strict  conformity  with  nab 
lire.  But  there  are  many  rocks  of  this  kind  ; as,  for  example,  the 
celebrated  Egyptian  bricia,  in  which  the  fragments  are  parti}”-  round 
and  partly  angular  ; while  the  term  glutenite  is  liable  to  no  such  objec- 
tions, and  the  several  structures  identify  the  various  substances, 

“The  celebrated  English  pudding-stone,  found  nowhere  in  the  world 
but  in  Hertfordshire,  appears  to  me  to  be  rather  an  original  rock, 
formed  in  the  manner  of  amygdalites,  because  the  pebbles  do  not  seem 
to  have  been  rolled  by  water,  which  would  have  worn  off  the  substances 
in  various  directions ; while,  on  the  contrary,  the  white,  black,  brown, 
or  red  circlets  are  always  entire,  and  parallel  with  the  surface,  like 
those  of  agates.  Pebbles,  therefore,  instead  of  being  united  to  form 
such  rocks,  may,  in  many  circumstances,  proceed  from  their  decompo- 
sition; the  circumjacent  sand  also  arising  from  the  decomposition  of 
the  cement. 

“ Mountains  or  regions  of  real  glutenite  often,  however,  accompany 
the  skirts  of  extensive  chains  of  mountains,  as  on  the  northwest  and 
southeast  sides  of  the  Grampian  Mountains  in  Scotland,  in  which  in- 
stance the  cement  is  affirmed  by  many  travellers  to  be  ferruginous,  or 
sometimes  argillaceous.  The  largeness  or  minuteness  of  the  pebbles  or 
particles  cannot  be  said  to  alter  the  nature  of  the  substance  ; so  that  a 
fine  sandstone  is  also  a glutenite,  if  viewed  by  the  microscope.  They 
may  be  divided  into  two  structures : the  large-grained,  comprising  bri- 
cias  and  pudding-stones  ; and  the  small-grained,  or  sandstones. 

“ At  Dunstaffnage,  in  Scotland,*  romantic  rocks  of  a singularly  abrupt 
appearance,  in  some  parts  resembling  walls,  are  formed  by  glutenite, 
in  which  the  kernels  consist  of  white  quartz,  with  green  or  black  trap 
porphyries,  and  basalts. 

“ In  the  glutenite  from  the  south  of  the  Grampians,  from  Ayrshire, 
from  Inglestone  Bridge,  on  the  road  between  Edinburgh  and  Lanark, 
the  cement  is  often  siliceous,  as  in  those  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps  ob- 
served by  Saussure. 

“Another  glutenite  consists  of  fragments  of  granite,  cemented  by 
trap. 

“ Siderous  glutenite,  or  pudding-stone  of  the  most  modern  formation, 
is  formed  around  cannon,  pistols,  and  other  instruments  of  iron,  by 
the  sand  of  the  sea. 

“ Glutenite  of  small  quartz  pebbles,  in  a red  ferruginous  cement,  is 
found  in  the  coal  mines  near  Bristol,  etc. 

“ Porphyritic  hricia  {Linn,  a Omelin,  247),  from  Dalecarlia  in  Sweden, 
and  Saxony.  Calton-hill,  Edinburgh  ? 


* For  convenience  in  quotation,  I occasionally  alter  Pinkerton’s  phrases — 
but,  it  will  be  found  by  reference  to  the  original,  without  the  slightest  change 
in,  or  loss  of,  their  meaning. 


IN  M0NTIBU8  SANCTIS. 


125 


“The  entirely  siliceous  gluteuites  will  comprehend  many  important 
substances  of  various  structures,  from  the  celebrated  Egyptian  bricia, 
containing  large  pebbles  of  jasper,  granite,  and  porphyry,  to  the  silice- 
ous sandstone  of  Stonehenge.  These  gluteuites  are  of  various  forma- 
tions ; and  the  pudding-stone  of  England  would  rather  seem,  as  already 
mentioned,  to  be  an  original  rock,  the  pebbles  or  rather  kernels  having 
no  appearance  of  having  been  rolled  in  water.  Patrin*  has  expressed 
the  same  idea  concerning  those  pudding-stones  which  so  much  embar- 
rassed Sanssure,  as  he  found  their  beds  in  a vertical  position,  while  he 
argues  that  they  could  only  have  been  formed  on  a horizontal  level. 
This  curious  question  might,  as  would  seem,  be  easily  decided  by  ex- 
amining if  the  kernels  have  been  rolled,  or  if,  on  the  contrary,  they 
retain  their  uniform  concentric  tints,  observable  in  the  pudding  stone 
of  England,  and  well  represented  in  the  specimen  which  Patrin  has 
engraved.  But  the  same  idea  had  arisen  to  me  before  I had  seen 
Patrin’s  ingenious  system  of  mineralogy.  In  like  manner  rocks  now 
universally  admitted  to  consist  of  granular  quartz,  or  that  substance 
crystallized  in  the  form  of  sand,  were  formerly  supposed  to  consist 
of  sand  agglutinated.  Several  primitive  rocks  contain  glands  of 
the  same  substance,  and  that  great  observer,  Saussure,  has  called 
them  Glandulites,  an  useful  denomination  when  the  glands  are  of 
the  same  substance  with  the  rock  ; while  Amygdalites  are  those  rocks 
which  contain  kernels  of  quite  a different  nature.  He  observes,  that 
in  such  a rock  a central  point  of  crystallization  may  attract  the  cir- 
cumjacent matter  into  a round  or  oval  form,  perfectly  defined  and  dis- 
tinct; while  other  parts  of  the  substance,  having  no  point  of  attraction, 
may  coalesce  into  a mass.  The  agency  of  iron  may  also  be  suspected, 
that  metal,  as  appears  from  its  ores,  often  occurring  in  detached  round 
and  oval  forms  of  many  sizes,  and  even  a small  proportion  having  a 
great  power. 

“ On  the  other  hand,  many  kinds  of  pudding-stone  consist  merely  of 
rounded  pebbles.  Saussure  describes  the  liigiberg,  near  the  lake  of 
Lucerne,  a mountain  not  less  than  5,800  feet  in  height  above  the  sea, 
and  said  to  ba  eight  leagues  in  circumference,  which  consists  entirely 
of  rolled  pebbles,  and  among  them  some  of  pudding-stone,  probably 
original,  disposed  in  regular  layers,  and  embedded  in  a calcareous  ce- 
ment. The  pudding  rocks  around  the  great  lake  Baikal,  in  the  centre 
of  Asia,  present  the  same  phenomenon  ; but  it  has  not  been  observed 
whether  the  fragments  be  of  an  original  or  derivative  rock. 

“The  siliceous  sandstones  form  another  important  division  of  this 
class.  They  may  sometimes,  as  already  mentioned,  be  confounded  with 
granular  quartz,  which  must  be  regarded  as  a primary  crystallization. 
The  sand,  which  has  also  been  found  in  micaceous  scliist\is,  and  at  a 


* i.,  154. 


128 


MONTIBUS  SAWGTIS. 


vast  depth  in  many  mines,  may  be  well  regarded  as  belonging  to  this 
formation  ; for  it  is  well  known  that,  if  the  crystallization  be  much 
disturbed,  the  substance  will  descend  in  small  irregular  particles. 

“ Siliceous  sandstones  are  far  more  uncommon  than  the  calcareous  or 
argillaceous.  The  limits  of  the  chalk  country  in  England  are  singularly 
marked  by  large  masses  of  siliceous  sandstone,  irregularly  dispersed. 
Those  of  Stonehenge  afford  remarkable  examples  of  the  size  and  nature 
of  those  fragments,  but  the  original  rock  has  not  been  discovered. 
Trap  or  basaltin  often  reposes  on  siliceous  sandstone. 

“But  the  most  eminent  and  singular  pudding-stones  are  those  oc- 
curring in  Egypt,  in  the  celebrated  bricia  of  the  Valley  of  Cosseir,  and 
in  the  siliceous  bricia  of  the  same  chain,  in  which  are  embedded  those 
curious  pebbles  known  by  the  name  of  Egyptian  jasper ; and  wdiich 
also  sometimes  contain  agates.  Bricias,  with  red  jasper,  also  occur  in 
France,  Switzerland,  and  other  countries ; but  the  cement  is  friable, 
and  they  seldom  take  a good  polish.  All  these  rocks  present  both 
round  and  angular  fragments,  which  shows  that  the  division  into 
bricias  and  pudding-stones  cannot  be  accepted  : a better  division,  when 
properly  ascertained,  would  be  into  original  and  derivative  glutenites. 
In  a geological  point  of  view,  the  most  remarkable  pudding-stones, 
which  might  more  classically  be  called  Kollanites,  from  the  Greek,* 
are  those  which  border  the  chains  of  primitive  mountains,  as  already 
mentioned.  The  English  Hertfordshire  pudding-stone  is  unique,  and 
beautiful  specimens  are  highly  valued  in  France,  and  other  countries. 
It  is  certainly  an  original  rock,  arising  from  a peculiar  crystallization, 
being  composed  of  round  and  oval  kernels  of  a red,  yellow,  brown,  or 
gray  tint,  in  a base  consisting  of  particles  of  the  same,  united  by  a silt 
ceous  cement. 

“Of  small-grained  argillaceous  glutenite,  the  most  celebrated  rock  is 
the  Orison,  or  Bergmanite,  just  mentioned,  being  composed  of  grains 
of  sand,  various  in  size,  sometimes  even  kernels  of  quartz ; which, 
with  occasional  bits  of  hard  clay  slate,  are  embedded  in  an  argillaceous 
cement,  of  the  nature  of  common  gray  clay  slate.  When  the  particles 
are  very  fine,  it  assumes  the  slaty  structure,  and  forms  the  grauwack 
slate  of  the  Germans.  It  is  the  chief  of  Werner’s  transitive  rocks, 
nearly  approaching  to  the  primitive  ; while  at  the  same  time  it  some- 
times contains  shells  and  other  petrifactions. 

“This  important  rock  was  formerly  considered  as  being  almost  pe- 
culiar to  the  Hartz,  where  it  contains  the  richest  mines  ; but  has  since 
been  observed  in  many  other  countries.  The  slaty  grison,  or  Bergman- 
ite, has  been  confounded  with  a clay  slate,  and  we  are  obliged  to  Mr. 
Jameson  for  the  following  distinctions  : 1.  It  is  commonly  of  a bluish. 


* KoAAa,  cement ; the  more  proper,  as  it  also  implies  iron,  often  the 
chief  agent. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


127 


ash,  or  smoke  gray,  and  rarely  presents  the  greenish  orliglit  yellowish- 
gray  color  of  primitive  clay  slate.  2.  Its  lustre  is  sometimes  glimmer- 
ing from  specks  of  mica,  but  it  never  shows  the  silky  lustre  of  clay 
slate.  3.  It  never  presents  siderite  nor  garnets.  4.  It  alternates  with 
massive  grauwack.  But  is  not  the  chief  distinction  its  aspect  of  a sand- 
stone, which  bas  led  to  the  trivial  French  name  of  fjrh-yris^  and  the 
English  ruhhlc-stone.,  which  may  imply  that  it  was  formed  of  rubbed 
fragments,  or  of  the  rubbish  of  other  rocks  ? The  fracture  is  also  differ- 
ent ; and  three  specimens  of  various  fineness,  which  I received  from 
Daubuisson,  at  Paris,  could  never  be  confounded  with  clay  slate. 

“This  rock  is  uncommonly  productive  of  metals,  not  only  in  beds 
but  also  in  veins,  which  latter  are  frequently  of  great  magnitude.  Thus 
almost  the  whole  of  the  mines  in  the  Hartz  are  situated  in  greywack. 
These  mines  afford  principally  argentiferous  lead-glance,  which  is  usu- 
ally accompanied  with  blend,  fahl  ore,  black  silver  ore,  and  copper 
pyrites.  A more  particular  examination  discloses  several  distinct  veni- 
genous  formations  that  traverse  the  mountains  of  the  Hartz.  The  grey- 
wack of  the  Saxon  Erzgebirge,  of  the  Khine  at  Rheinbreidenbach, 
Andernach,  etc.,  of  Leogang  in  Salzburg,  is  rich  in  ores,  particularly 
those  of  lead  and  copper.  At  Vorospatak  and  Facebay,  in  Transylvania, 
the  greywack  is  traversed  by  numerous  small  veins  of  gold.” 

These  passages  from  Pinkerton,  with  those  translated  at  p.  9 from 
Saussure,  are  enough  to  do  justice  to  the  clear  insight  of  old  geologists, 
respecting  matters  still  at  issue  among  younger  ones  ; and  I must 
therefore  ask  the  reader’s  patience  with  the  hesitating  assertions  in  the 
following  chapters  of  many  points  on  which  a wider  acquaintance  with 
the  writings  of  the  true  Fathers  of  the  science  might  have  enabled  me 
to  speak  with  grateful  confidence. 


CHAPTER  n. 


THE  DRY  LAND. 

Modern  Painters^'"  Vol.  IV.,  chap.  vii. 

And  God  saidf  Let  the  waters  which  are  under  the  heaven 
be  gathered  together  unto  one place^  and  let  the  dry  land  appear."' 

We  do  not,  perhaps,  often  enough  consider  the  deep  sig- 
nificance of  this  sentence.  We  are  too  apt  to  receive  it  as  the 
description  of  an  event  vaster  only  in  its  extent,  not  in  its 
nature,  than  the  compelling  the  Red  Sea  to  draw  back,  that 
Israel  might  pass  by.  We  imagine  the  Deity  in  like  manner 
rolling  the  waves  of  the  greater  ocean  together  on  an  heap, 
and  setting  bars  and  doors  to  them  eternally. 

But  there  is  a far  deeper  meaning  than  this  in  the  solemn 
words  of  Genesis,  and  in  the  correspondent  verse  of  the  Psalm, 
“His  hands  prepared  the  dry  land.”  Up  to  that  moment  the 
earth  had  been  void,  for  it  had  been  without  form.  The  com- 
mand that  the  waters  should  be  gathered,  was  the  command 
that  the  earth  should  be  sculptured.  The  sea  was  not  driven 
to  his  place  in  suddenly  restrained  rebellion,  but  withdrawn 
to  his  place  in  perfect  and  patient  obedience.  The  dry  land 
appeared,  not  in  level  sands,  forsaken  by  the  surges,  which 
those  surges  might  again  claim  for  their  own  ; but  in  range 
beyond  range  of  swelling  hill  and  iron  rock,  forever  to  claim 
kindred  with  the  firmament,  and  be  companioned  by  the 
clouds  of  heaven. 

2.  What  space  of  time  was  in  reality  occupied  by  the 
“ day  ” of  Genesis,  is  not,  at  present,  of  any  importance  for 
us  to  consider.  By  what  furnaces  of  fire  the  adamant  was 
melted,  and  by  what  wheels  of  earthquake  it  was  torn,  and  by 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


129 


what  teeth  of  glacier  * and  weight  of  sea-waves  it  was  en- 
graven and  finished  into  its  perfect  form,  we  ma}"  perhaps 
hereafter  endeavor  to  conjecture  ; but  here,  as  in  few  v/ords 
the  work  is  summed  by  the  historian,  so  in  few  broad  thoughts 
it  should  be  comprehended  by  us  ; and  as  we  read  the  mighty 
sentence,  “Let  the  dry  land  appear,”  we  should  try  to  follow 
the  finger  of  God,  as  it  engraved  upon  the  stone  tables  of  the 
earth  the  letters  and  the  law  of  its  everlasting  form  ; as,  gulf 
by  gulf,  the  channels  of  the  deep  were  ploughed ; and,  cape 
by  cape,  the  lines  were  traced,  with  Divine  foreknowledge,  of 
the  shores  that  were  to  limit  the  nations  ; and,  chain  by  chain, 
the  mountain  walls  were  lengthened  forth,  and  their  founda- 
tions fastened  for  ever  ; and  the  compass  was  set  upon  the 
face  of  the  depth,  and  the  fields,  and  the  highest  part  of  the 
dust  of  the  world  were  made  ; and  the  right  hand  of  Christ 
first  strewed  the  snow  on  Lebanon,  and  smoothed  the  slopes 
of  Calvary. 

3.  It  is  not,  I repeat,  always  needful,  in  many  respects  it  is 
not  possible,  to  conjecture  the  manner,  or  the  time,  in  vvdiicli 
this  work  was  done  ; but  it  is  deeply  necessary  for  all  men 
to  consider  the  magnificence  of  the  accomplished  purpose, 
and  the  depth  of  the  wisdom  and  love  which  are  manifested 
in  the  ordinances  of  the  hills.  For  observe,  in  order  to  bring 
the  world  into  the  form  which  it  now  bears,  it  was  not  mere 
sculpture  that  was  needed  ; the  mountains  could  not  stand 
for  a day  unless  they  were  formed  of  materials  altogether 
different  from  those  which  constitute  the  lower  hills,  and  tlio 
surfaces  of  the  valleys.  A harder  substance  had  to  be  pre- 
pared for  every  mountain  chain  ; yet  not  so  hard  but  that  it 
might  be  capable  of  crumbling  down  into  earth  fit  to  nourish 
the  Alpine  forest  and  the  Alpine  flow^er ; not  so  hard  but 
that,  in  the  midst  of  the  utmost  majesty  of  its  enthroned 
strength,  there  should  be  seen  on  it  the  seal  of  death,  and  the 


* Though  I had  already  learned  from  James  Forhes  the  laws  of 
glacier  motion,  I still  fancied  that  ice  could  drive  embedded  blocks  and 
wear  down  rock  surfaces.  See  for  correctioji  of  this  error,  Arrows  of 
the  Chase,  vol.  i , pp.  255-273,  and  Deucalion,  passim. 

9 


130 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANG  TIB. 


writing  of  the  same  sentence  that  had  gone  forth  against  the 
human  frame,  “ Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  shalt  re- 
turn.” * And  witli  this  perishable  substance  the  most  majes- 
tic forms  were  to  be  framed  that  w^ere  consistent  with  the 
safety  of  man  ; and  the  peak  was  to  be  lifted,  and  the  cliff 
rent,  as  high  and  as  steeply  as  was  possible,  in  order  yet  to 
permit  the  shepherd  to  feed  his  flocks  upon  the  slope,  and 
the  cottage  to  nestle  beneath  their  shadow. 

4.  And  observe,  two  distinct  ends  were  to  be  accomplished 
in  the  doing  this.  It  was,  indeed,  absolutely  necessary  that 
such  eminences  should  be  created,  in  order  to  fit  the  earth  in 
any  wise  for  human  habitation  ; for  without  mountains  the 
air  could  not  be  purified,  nor  the  flowing  of  the  rivers  sus- 
tained, and  the  earth  must  have  become  for  the  most  part 
desert  plain,  or  stagnant  marsh.  But  the  feeding  of  the  riv- 
ers and  the  purifying  of  the  winds  are  the  least  of  the  services 
appointed  to  the  hills.  To  fill  the  thirst  of  the  human  heart 
for  the  beauty  of  God’s  working — to  startle  its  lethargy  with 
the  deep  and  pure  agitation  of  astonisliment — are  their 
higher  missions.  They  are  as  a great  and  noble  architecture  ; 
first  giving  shelter,  comfort,  and  rest ; and  covered  also  with 
mighty  sculpture  and  painted  legend.  It  is  impossible  to 
examine  in  their  connected  s^'stem  the  features  of  even  the 
most  ordinaiy  mountain  scenery,  without  concluding  that  it 
has  been  prepared  in  order  to  unite,  as  far  as  possible,  and  in 
the  closest  compass,  every  means  of  delighting  and  sanctify- 
ing the  heart  of  man.  “ As  far  as|90ssi6/c  ; ” that  is,  as  far  as 
is  consistent  with  the  fulfilment  of  the  sentence  of  condem- 
nation on  the  whole  earth.  Death  must  be  upon  the  hills ; 
and  the  cruelty  of  the  tempests  smite  them,  and  the  brier 
and  thorn  spring  up  upon  them  : but  they  so  smite,  as  to 
bring  their  rocks  into  the  fairest  forms  ; and  so  spring,  as 
to  make  the  very  desert  blossom  as  the  rose.  Even  among 


* “Surely  tlie  mountain  falling  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is 
removed  out  of  his  place.  The  waters  wear  the  stones  : thou  washest 
away  the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  thou  de- 
stroyest  the  hope  of  man.^’ — Joh  xiv.  18,  19. 


IN  MONTI  BUS  SANCTIS. 


131 


our  own  hills  of  Scotland  and  Cumberland,  though  often  too 
barren  to  be  perfectly  beautiful,  and  always  too  lov/  to  be 
])erfectly  sublime,  it  is  strange  how  many  deep  sources  of  de- 
light are  gathered  into  the  compass  of  tlieir  glens  and  vales  ; 
and  how,  down  to  the  most  secret  cluster  of  their  far-away 
flowers,  and  the  idlest  leap  of  their  straying  streamlets,  the 
whole  heart  of  Nature  seems  thirsting  to  give,  and  still  to 
give,  shedding  forth  her  everlasting  beneficence  with  a pro- 
fusion so  patient,  so  passionate,  that  our  utmost  observance 
and  thankfulness  are  but,  at  last,  neglect  of  her  nobleness, 
and  apathy  to  her  love. 

But  among  the  true  mountains  of  the  greater  orders  the 
Divine  purpose  of  appeal  at  once  to  all  the  faculties  of  the 
human  spirit  becomes  still  more  manifest.  Inferior  hills  or- 
dinarily interrupt,  in  some  degree,  the  richness  of  the  valleys 
at  their  feet  ; the  gray  downs  of  southern  England,  and  tree- 
less coteaux  of  central  France,  and  gray  swells  of  Scottish 
moor,  whatever  peculiar  charm  they  may  possess  in  themselves, 
are  at  least  destitute  of  those  which  belong  to  the  •woods  and 
fields  of  the  lowlands.  But  the  great  mountains  lift  the  low- 
lands on  their  sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine,  first,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  most  varied  plain  of  some  richly  cultivated  coun- 
try ; let  him  imagine  it  dark  wdth  graceful  woods,  and  soft 
with  deepest  pastures  ; let  him  fill  the  space  of  it,  to  the  ut- 
most horizon,  with  innumerable  and  changeful  incidents  of 
scenery  and  life  ; leading  pleasant  streamlets  through  its  mead- 
ows, strewing  clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks,  tracing 
sweet  footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and  animating  its  fields 
with  happy  flocks,  and  slow  wandering  spots  of  cattle  ; and 
when  he  has  wearied  himself  -^vith  endless  imagining,  and  left 
no  space  without  some  loveliness  of  its  own,  let  him  conceive 
all  this  great  plain,  with  its  infinite  treasures  of  natural  beauty 
and  happy  human  life,  gathered  up  in  God’s  hands  from  one 
edge  of  the  horizon  to  the  other,  like  a woven  garment ; and 
shaken  into  deep  falling  folds,  as  the  robes  droop  from  a king’s 
shoulders  ; all  its  bright  id  vers  leaping  into  cataracts  along  the 
holloAvs  of  its  fall,  and  all  its  forests  rearing  themselves  aslant 
against  its  slopes,  as  a rider  rears  himself  back  when  hishor^ 


l’S2 


IN  M0NTIBU8  8ANCTI8, 


plunges  ; and  all  its  villages  nestling  themselves  into  the  new 
windings  of  its  glens  ; and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep 
waves  of  greensward,  dashed  with  dew  along  the  edges  of  their 
folds,  and  sweeping  down  into  endless  slopes,  with  a cloud 
here  and  there  lying  quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in  the  air  ; 
and  he  will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world,  only  the  foun- 
dation of  one  of  the  great  Alps.  And  whatever  is  lovely  in 
the  lowland  scenery  becomes  lovelier  in  this  change  ; the  trees 
which  grew  heavily  and  stiffly  from  the  level  line  of  plain 
assume  strange  curves  of  strength  and  grace  as  they  bend 
themselves  against  the  mountain  side  ; they  breathe  more 
freely,  and  toss  their  branches  more  carelessly  as  each  climbs 
higher,  looking  to  the  clear  light  above  the  topmost  leaves  of 
its  brother  tree : the  flowers  which  on  the  arable  plain  fell 
before  the  plough,  now  find  out  for  themselves  unapproacha- 
ble places,  where  year  by  year  they  gather  into  happier  fel- 
lowship, and  fear  no  evil ; and  the  streams  which  in  the 
level  land  crept  in  dark  eddies  by  unwholesome  banks,  now 
move  in  showers  of  silver,  and  are  clothed  with  rainbows, 
and  bring  health  and  life  wherever  the  glance  of  their  waves 
can  reach. 

5.  And  although  this  beauty  seems  at  first,  in  its  wildness, 
inconsistent  with  the  service  of  man,  it  is  in  fact  more  neces- 
sary to  his  happy  existence  than  all  the  level  and  easily  subdued 
land  which  he  rejoices  to  possess.  It  seems  almost  an  insult 
to  the  reader’s  intelligence  to  ask  him  to  dwell  (as  if  they  could 
be  doubted)  on  the  uses  of  the  hills,  and  yet  so  little  until 
lately  have  those  uses  been  understood  that,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  one  of  the  most  enlightened  of  the  religious  men  of 
his  day  (Fleming),  himself  a native  of  a mountain  country, 
casting  about  for  some  reason  to  explain  to  himself  the  exist- 
ence of  mountains,  and  prove  their  harmony  with  the  provi- 
dential government  of  creation,  can  light  upon  this  reason 
only,  “ They  are  inhabited  by  the  beasts.” 

6.  It  may  not,  therefore,  even  at  this  day,  be  profitless  to 
review  briefly  the  nature  of  the  three  great  offices  which 
mountain  ranges  are  appointed  to  fulfil,  in  order  to  preserve 
the  health  and  increase  the  happiness  of  mankind. 


m MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


13S 


I.  Their  first  use  is  of  course  to  give  motion  to  (fresh)  water, 

Eveiy  fountain  and  river,  from  the  inch-deep  streamlet 
that  crosses  the  village  lane  in  trembling  clearness,  to  the 
massy  and  silent  march  of  the  everlasting  multitude  of  waters 
in  Amazon  or  Ganges,  owe  their  play  and  purity  and  power 
to  the  ordained  elevations  of  the  Earth.  Gentle  or  steep, 
extended  or  abrupt,  some  determined  slope  of  the  earth’s 
surface  is  of  course  necessary,  before  any  wave  can  so  much 
as  overtake  one  sedge  in  its  pilgrimage  ; and  how  seldom  do 
we  enough  consider,  as  we  walk  beside  the  margins  of  our 
pleasant  brooks,  how  beautiful  and  wonderful  is  that  ordi- 
nance, of  which  every  blade  of  grass  that  waves  in  their  clear 
water  is  a perpetual  sign  ; that  the  dew  and  rain  fallen  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  shall  find  no  resting-place  ; shall  find,  on  the 
contrary,  fixed  channels  traced  for  them,  from  the  ravines  of 
the  central  crests  down  which  they  roar  in  sudden  ranks  of 
foam,  to  the  dark  hollows  beneath  the  banks  of  lowland  past- 
ure, round  which  they  must  circle  slowly  among  the  stems 
and  beneath  the  leaves  of  the  lilies  ; paths  prepared  for 
them,  by  which,  at  some  appointed  rate  of  journey,  they 
must  evermore  descend,  sometimes  slow  and  sometimes  swift, 
but  never  pausing  ; the  daily  portion  of  the  earth  they  have 
to  glide  over  marked  for  them  at  each  successive  sunrise,  the 
place  which  has  known  them  knowing  them  no  more,  and  the 
gateways  of  guarding  mountains  opened  for  them  in  cleft  and 
chasm,  none  letting  them  in  their  pilgrimage  ; and,  from  far 
off,  the  great  heart  of  the  sea  calling  them  to  itself ! Deep 
calleth  unto  deep. 

I know  not  which  of  the  two  is  the  more  wonderful,— that 
calm,  gradated,  invisible  slope  of  the  champaign  land,  which 
gives  motion  to  the  stream  ; or  that  passage  cloven  for  it 
through  the  ranks  of  hill,  which,  necessary  for  the  health  of 
the  land  immediately  around  them,  would  yet,  unless  so  su- 
pernaturally  divided,  have  fatally  intercepted  the  flow  of  the 

* (Only  true  on  a large  scale.  I have  perhaps  not  allowed  enough 
for  the  mere  secession  of  flowing  water,  supplying  the  evaporation  of 
the  sea,  Avhether  the  plains  be  level  or  not ; — it  must  find  its  way  to 
the  place  where  there  is  a fall,  as  through  a mill  pond  to  the  weir.) 


lU 


IN  MONTIBUS  8AN0TI8. 


waters  from  far-off  countries.  When  did  the  great  spirit  of 
the  river  first  knock  at  those  adamantine  gates  ? When  did 
the  porter  open  to  it,  and  cast  his  keys  away  for  ever,  lapped 
in  whirling  sand  ? I am  not  satisfied — no  one  should  be  sat- 
isfied with  that  vague  answer — the  river  cut  its  way.  Not 
so.  The  river  found  its  way.*  I do  not  see  that  rivers,  in 
their  own  strength,  can  do  much  in  cutting  their  way  ; they 
are  nearly  as  apt  to  choke  their  channels  up,  as  to  carve  them 
out.  Only  give  a river  some  little  sudden  power  in  a valley, 
and  see  how  it  will  use  it.  Cut  itself  a bed?  Not  so, 
by  any  means,  but  fill  up  its  bed,  and  look  for  another,  in 
a wild,  dissatisfied,  inconsistent  manner.  Any  way,  rather 
than  the  old  one,  vrill  better  please  it  ; and  even  if  it  is 
banked  up  and  forced  to  keep  to  the  old  one,  it  will  not 
deepen,  but  do  all  it  can  to  raise  it,  and  leap  out  of  it.  And 
although,  wherever  water  has  a steep  fall,  it  will  swiftly  cut 
itself  a bed  deep  into  the  rock  or  ground,  it  will  not,  when 
the  rock  is  hard,  cut  a wider  channel  than  it  actually 
needs  ; so  that  if  the  existing  river  beds,  through  ranges  of 
mountain,  had  in  reality  been  cut  by  the  streams,  they  would 
be  found,  wherever  the  rocks  are  hard,  only  in  the  form  of 
narrow  and  profound  ravines — like  the  well-known  channel 
of  the  Niagara,  below  the  fall  ; not  in  that  of  extended  val- 
leys. And  the  actual  work  of  true  mountain  rivers,  though 
often  much  greater  in  proportion  to  their  body  of  water  than 
that  of  the  Niagara,  is  quite  insignificant  when  compared  with 
the  area  and  depth  of  the  valleys  through  'which  they  flow  ; 
so  that,  although  in  many  cases  it  appears  that  those  larger 
valleys  have  been  excavated  at  earlier  periods  by  more  pow- 
erful streams,  or  by  the  existing  stream  in  a more  powerful 
condition,  still  the  great  fact  remains  always  equally  plain, 
and  equally  admirable,  that,  whatever  the  nature  and  dura- 
tion of  the  agencies  emploj^ed,  the  earth  was  so  shaped  at 
first  as  to  direct  the  currents  of  its  rivers  in  the  manner  most 

* ( It  is  very  delightful  to  me, — at  least  to  tlie  proud  spirit  in  me, — 
to  find  myself  thus  early  perceiving  and  clearly  announcing  a fact  of 
which  modern  geology  is  still  incognizant ; see  the  postscript  to  this 
chapter. ) 


MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS, 


135 


healthy  and  convenient  for  man.  The  valley  of  the  Rhone 
may,  though  it  is  not  likely,  have  been  in  great  part  exca- 
vated in  early  time  by  torrents  a thousand  times  larger  than 
the  Rhone  ; but  it  could  not  have  been  excavated  at  all,  un- 
less the  mountains  had  been  thrown  at  first  into  two  chains, 
between  which  the  torrents  were  set  to  work  in  a given  di- 
rection. And  it  is  easy  to  conceive  how,  under  any  less  be- 
neficent dispositions  of  their  masses  of  hill,  the  continents  of 
the  earth  might  either  have  been  covered  with  enormous 
lakes,  as  parts  of  North  America  actually  are  covered  ; or 
have  become  wildernesses  of  pestiferous  marsh  ; or  lifeless 
plains,  upon  which  the  water  would  have  dried  as  it  fell, 
leaving  them  for  great  part  of  the  year  desert.  Such  dis- 
tricts do  exist,  and  exist  in  vastness  ; the  ivhole  earth  is  not 
prepared  for  the  habitation  of  man  ; only  certain  small  por- 
tions are  prepared  for  him — the  houses,  as  it  were,  of  the 
human  race,  from  which  they  are  to  look  abroad  upon  the 
rest  of  the  world,  not  to  wonder  or  complain  that  it  is  not  all 
house,  but  to  be  grateful  for  the  kindness  of  the  admirable 
building,  in  the  house  itself,  as  compared  with  the  rest.  It 
would  be  as  absurd  to  think  it  an  evil  that  all  the  world  is 
not  fit  for  us  to  inhabit,  as  to  think  it  an  evil  that  the  globe 
is  no  larger  than  it  is.  As  much  as  we  shall  ever  need  is  evi- 
dently assigned  to  us  for  our  dwelling-place  ; the  rest,  cov- 
ered with  rolling  waves  or  drifting  sands,  fretted  with  ice, 
or  crested  with  fire,  is  set  before  us  for  contemplation  in  an 
uninhabitable  magnificence  ; and  that  part  which  we  are  en- 
abled to  inhabit  owes  its  fitness  for  human  life  chiefly  to  its 
mountain  ranges,  which,  throwing  the  superfluous  rain  off  as 
it  falls,  collect  it  in  streams  or  lakes,  and  guide  it  into  given 
places,  and  in  given  directions  ; so  that  men  can  build  their 
cities  in  the  midst  of  fields  which  they  know  will  be  always 
fertile,  and  establish  the  lines  of  their  commerce  upon 
streams  which  will  not  fail. 

7.  Nor  is  this  giving  of  motion  to  water  to  be  considered 
as  confined  only  to  the  surface  of  the  earth.  A no  less  im- 
portant function  of  the  hills  is  in  directing  the  flow  of  the 
fountains  and  springs,  from  subterranean  reservoirs.  There 


13G 


IN  M0NTIBU8  SANCTIS. 


is  no  miraculous  springing  up  of  water  out  of  the  ground  at 
our  feet  ; but  every  fountain  and  well  is  supplied  from  a 
reservoir  among  the  hills,  so  placed  as  to  involve  some  slight 
fall  or  pressure,  enough  to  secure  the  constant  flowing  of  the 
stream.  And  the  incalculable  blessing  of  the  power  given  to 
us  in  most  valleys,  of  reaching  by  excavation  some  point 
whence  the  water  will  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  ground  in 
perennial  flow,  is  entirely  owing  to  the  concave  disposition  of 
the  beds  of  clay  or  rock  raised  from  beneath  the  bosom  of 
the  valley  into  ranks  of  enclosing  hills. 

8.  II.  The  second  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  maintain  a 
constant  change  in  the  currents  and  nature  of  the  air.  Such 
change  would,  of  course,  have  been  partly  caused  by  differ- 
ences in  soils  and  vegetation,  even  if  the  earth  had  been  level ; 
but  to  a far  less  extent  than  it  is  now  by  the  chains  of  hills, 
which,  exposing  on  one  side  their  masses  of  rock  to  the  full 
heat  of  the  sun  (increased  by  the  angle  at  which  the  rays 
strike  on  the  slope),  and  on  the  other  casting  a soft  shadow  for 
leagues  over  the  plains  at  their  feet,  divide  the  earth  not  only 
into  districts,  but  into  climates,  and  cause  perpetual  currents 
of  air  to  traverse  their  passes,^  and  ascend  or  descend  their 
ravines,  altering  both  the  temperature  and  nature  of  the  air 
as  it  passes,  in  a thousand  different  ways  ; moistening  it  with 
the  spray  of  their  waterfalls,  sucking  it  down  and  beating  it 
hither  and  thither  in  the  pools  of  their  torrents,  closing  it 
within  clefts  and  caves,  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach,  till 
it  is  as  cold  as  November  mists,  then  sending  it  forth  again 
to  breathe  softly  across  the  slopes  of  velvet  fields,  or  to  be 
scorched  among  sunburnt  shales  and  grassless  crags  ; then 
drawing  it  back  in  moaning  swirls  through  clefts  of  ice,  and 
up  into  dewy  wreaths  above  the  snow-fields  ; then  piercing  it 
with  strange  electric  darts  and  flashes  of  mountain  fire,  and 
tossing  it  high  in  fantastic  storm-cloud,  as  the  dried  grass  is 
tossed  by  the  mower,  only  suffering  it  to  depart  at  last,  when 


* This  second  division  of  my  subject,  compressed  into  one  paragraph, 
is  treated  with  curious  insufficiency.  See  again  postscript  to  this 
chapter. 


IJY  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS.  137 

chastened  and  pure,  to  refresh  the  faded  air  of  the  far-off 
plains. 

. 9.  III.  The  third  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  cause  per- 

petual change  in  the  soils  of  the  earth.  Without  such  pro- 
vision, the  ground  under  cultivation  would  in  a series  of 
3'ears  become  exhausted,  and  require  to  be  upturned  labori- 
ously by  the  hand  of  man.  But  the  elevations  of  the  earth’s 
surface  provide  for  it  a perpetual  renovation.  The  higher 
mountains  suffer  their  summits  to  be  broken  into  fragments 
and  to  be  cast  down  in  sheets  of  massy  rock,  full,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  of  every  substance  necessary  for  the  nourish- 
ment of  plants  ; these  fallen  fragments  are  again  broken  by 
frost,  and  ground  by  torrents,  into  various  conditions  of  sand 
and  clay — materials  which  are  distributed  perpetually  by  the 
streams  farther  and  farther  from  the  mountain’s  base.  Every 
shower  which  swells  the  rivulets  enables  their  waters  to 
carry  certain  portions  of  earth  into  new  positions,  and  ex- 
poses new  banks  of  ground  to  be  mined  in  their  tui’ii..  That 
turbid  foaming  of  the  angry  water — that  tearing  down  of 
bank  and  rock  along  the  flanks  of  its  fury — are  no  disturb- 
ances of  the  kind  course  of  nature ; they  are  beneficent  opera- 
tions of  laws  necessary  to  the  existence  of  man  and  to  the 
beauty  of  the  earth.  The  process  is  continued  more  gently, 
but  not  less  effectively,  over  all  the  surface  of  the  lower  un- 
dulating country ; and  each  filtering  thread  of  summer  rain 
which  trickles  through  the  short  turf  of  the  uplands  is  bear- 
ing its  own  appointed  burden  of  earth  to  be  thrown  down  on 
some  new  natural  garden  in  the  dingles  below. 

And  it  is  not,  in  reality,  a degrading,  but  a true,  large,  and 
ennobling  view  of  the  mountain  ranges  of  the  world,  if  we 
compare  them  to  heaps  of  fertile  and  fresh  earth,  laid  up  by 
a prudent  gardener  beside  his  garden  beds,  whence,  at  in- 
tervals, he  casts  on  them  some  scattering  of  new  and  virgin 
ground.  That  whicli  we  so  often  lament  as  convulsion  or 
destruction  is  nothing  else  * than  tlie  momentary  shaking  of 

* (T  should  call  it  a good  deal  else,  now  ! hut  must  leave  the  text  un- 
touched ; being,  in  its  statements  of  pure  fact — putting  its  theology 
aside  for  the  moment— quite  one  of  the  best  pieces  I have  ever  done.) 


138 


JiY  M0NTIBU8  SANG T 18. 


the  dust  from  the  spade.  The  winter  floods,  which  inflict  a 
temporary  devastation,  bear  with  them  the  elements  of  suc- 
ceeding fertility  ; the  fruitful  field  is  covered  with  sand  and 
shingle  in  momentaiy  judgment,  but  in  enduring  mercy  ; and 
the  gxeat  river,  which  chokes  its  mouth  with  marsh,  and  tosses 
terror  along  its  shore,  is  but  scattering  the  seeds  of  the  har- 
vests of  futurity,  and  preparing  the  seats  of  unborn  genera- 
tions. 

10.  I have  not  spoken  of  the  local  and  peculiar  utilities  of 
mountains  ; I do  not  count  the  benefit  of  the  supply  of  sum- 
mer streams  from  the  moors  of  the  higher  ranges — of  the 
various  medicinal  plants  which  are  nested  among  their  rocks 
— of  the  delicate  pasturage  which  they  furnish  for  cattle  * — 
of  the  forests  in  which  they  bear  timber  for  shipping — the 
stones  they  supply  for  building,  or  the  ores  of  metal  which 
they  collect  into  spots  open  to  discovery,  and  easy  for  work- 
ing. All  these  benefits  are  of  a secondary  or  a limited  na- 
ture. But  the  three  gi’eat  functions  which  I have  just  de- 
scribed— those  of  giving  motion  and  change  to  water,  air,  and 
earth — are  indispensable  to  human  existence  ; they  are  oper- 
ations to  be  regarded  with  as  full  a depth  of  gratitude  as 
the  laws  which  bid  the  tree  bear  fruit,  or  the  seed  multiply 
itself  in  the  earth.  And  thus  those  desolate  and  threatening- 
ranges  of  dark  mountains,  which,  in  nearly  all  ages  of  the 
w^orld,  men  have  looked  upon  with  aversion  or  with  terror, 
and  shrunk  back  from  as  if  they  were  haunted  by  perpetual 
images  of  death,  are,  in  reality,  sources  of  life  and  happiness 
far  fuller  and  more  beneficent  than  all  the  bright  fruitfulness 
of  the  plain.  Tlie  valleys  onh"  feed  ; the  mountains  feed,  and 
guard,  and  strengthen  us.  We  take  our  ideas  of  fearfulness 
and  sublimity  alternately  from  the  mountains  and  the  sea  ; 
but  we  associate  them  unjustly.  The  sea  wave,  with  all  its 
beneficence,  is  yet  devouring  and  terrible  ; but  the  silent 
wave  of  the  blue  mountain  is  lifted  toward  heaven  in  a still- 
ness of  perpetual  mercy  ; and  the  one  surge,  unfathomable 


* The  highest  pasturages  (at  least  so  say  the  Savoyards)  being  always 
the  best  and  richest. 


IX  MOXTIBUS  SAXCTIS. 


139 


in  its  darkness,  the  other,  unshaken  in  its  faithfulness,  for 
ever  bear  the  seal  of  their  appointed  symbolism, 

“ THY  JUSTICE  IS  LIKE  THE  GEEAT  M0UXT.\INS  : 

THY  JUDGMENTS  AKE  A GEEAT  DEEP.” 


POSTSCEIPT  TO  CHAPTER  H 

The  subject  of  erosion  by  water,  referred  to  in  tlie  note  at  p.  134,  is 
treated  of  at  length  in  the  13th  chapter  of  “Deucalion,”  of  which  the 
conclusions  may  be  summed  in  the  warning  to  young  geologists  not  to 
suppose  that  because  Shankliu  Chine  was  “chined  ’’  by  its  central  gutter, 
therefore  Salisbury  Craigs  were  cut  out  by  the  Water  of  Leith — Ingle- 
borough  by  the  Kibble,  or  Monte  Rosa  by  the  Rhone. 

The  subject  has  since  been  farther  illustrated  by  the  admirable 
drawings  and  sections  given  by  Mr,  Collingwood  in  his  “ Limestone  Alps 
of  SavoV,”  1884. 

The  paragraph  at  p.  136  is  chiefly,  and  enormously,  defective  in  speak- 
ing only  of  the  changes  effected  by  mountains  in  the  nature  of  air,  and 
not  following  out  their  good  oflices  in  lifting  the  mountaineer  nations 
to  live  in  the  air  they  purify,  or  rise  into,  already  pure. 


CHAPTER  m. 


OP  THE  MATEBIALS  OP  MOUNTAINS. 

**  Modern  Painters''*  Part  F.,  the  beginning  of  cliap.  viii. 

In  the  early  days  of  geological  science  the  substances 
which  composed  the  crust  of  the  earth,  as  far  as  it  could  be 
examined,  were  supposed  to  be  referable  to  three  distinct 
classes  : the  first  consisting  of  rocks  which  not  only  sup- 
ported all  the  rest,  but  from  which  all  the  rest  were  derived, 
therefore  called  “ Primary  ; ” the  second  class  consisting  of 
rock  formed  of  the  broken  fragments  or  altered  substance  of 
the  primary  ones,  therefore  called  “ Secondary and,  thirdly, 
rocks  or  earthy  deposits  formed  by  the  ruins  and  detritus  of 
both  jirimary  and  secondary  rocks,  called  therefore  “ Ter- 
tiary.” This  classification  was  always,  in  some  degree,  un- 
certain ; and  has  been  lately  superseded  by  more  complicated 
systems,  founded  on  the  character  of  the  fossils  contained  in 
the  various  deposits,  and  on  the  circumstances  of  position,  by 
Vvdiich  their  relative  ages  are  more  accurately  ascertainable. 
But  the  original  rude  classification,  though  of  little,  if  an}% 
use  for  scientific  purposes,  was  based  on  certain  broad  and 
conspicuous  phenomena,  which  it  brought  clearly  before  the 
popular  mind.  In  this  way  it  may  still  be  serviceable,  and 
ought,  I think,  to  be  permitted  to  retain  its  place,  as  an  in- 
troduction to  systems  more  defined  and  authoritative.* 

2.  For  the  fact  is,  that  in  approaching  any  large  mountain 

* I am  still  entirely  of  this  opinion.  See  postscript  to  chapter. 
These  opening  paragraphs  are  to  my  mind  extremely  well  put,  and 
should  be  read  to  young  people  by  their  tutors  as  an  introduction  to 
geological  study.  I have  here  and  there  retouched  a loose  sentence, 
and  leave  them  as  good  as  I could  do  now. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIB. 


141 


range,  the  ground  over  which  the  spectator  passes,  if  he  ex- 
amine it  with  any  intelligence,  will  almost  always  arrange 
itself  in  his  mind  under  three  great  heads.  There  will  be, 
first,  the  ground  of  the  plains  or  valleys  he  is  about  to  quit, 
composed  of  sand,  clay,  gravel,  rolled  stones,  and  variously 
mingled  soils  ; which,  when  there  is  opportunity,  at  the  banks 
of  a stream,  or  the  sides  of  a railway  cutting,  to  examine  to 
any  depth,  he  will  find  arranged  in  beds  exactly  resembling 
those  of  modern  sandbanks  or  sea-beaches,  and  appearing  to 
have  been  formed  under  natural  laws  such  as  are  in  opera- 
tion daily  around  us.  At  the  outskirts  of  the  hill  district, 
he  may,  perhaps,  find  considerable  eminences,  formed  of  these 
beds  of  loose  gravel  and  sand  ; but,  as  he  enters  into  it  far- 
ther, he  will  soon  discover  the  hills  to  bo  composed  of  some 
harder  substance,  properly  deserving  the  name  of  rock,  sus- 
taining itself  in  picturesque  forms,  and  appearing,  at  first,  to 
owe  both  its  hardness  and  its  outlines  to  the  action  of  laws 
such  as  do  not  hold  at  the  present  day.  He  can  easily  explain 
the  nature,  and  account  for  the  distribution,  of  the  banks 
which  overhang  the  lowland  road,  or  of  the  dark  earthy  de- 
posits which  enrich  the  lowland  pasture  ; but  he  cannot  so 
distinctly  imagine  how  the  limestone  hills  of  Derbyshire  and 
Yorkshire  were  hardened  into  their  stubborn  whiteness,  or 
raised  into  their  cavernous  cliffs.  Still,  if  he  carefully  ex- 
amine the  substance  of  these  more  noble  rocks,  he  will,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  discover  them  to  be  composed  of  fine 
calcareous  dust,  or  closely  united  particles  of  sand  ; and  will 
be  ready  to  accept  as  possible,  or  even  probable,  the  sugges- 
tion of  their  having  been  formed,  by  slow  deposit,  at  the 
bottom  of  deep  lakes  and  ancient  seas,  and  then  gradually 
consolidated  under  such  laws  of  Nature  as  are  still  in  opera- 
tion. 

3.  But,  as  ho  advances  yet  farther  into  the  hill  district,  he 
finds  the  rocks  around  him  assuming  a gloomier  and  more 
majestic  condition.  Their  tint  darkens  ; their  outlines  become 
wild  and  irregular ; and  whereas  before  they  had  only  ap- 
peared at  the  roadside  in  narrow  ledges  among  the  turf,  or 
glanced  out  from  among  the  thickets  above  the  brooks  in 


142 


IN  M0NTIBU8  SANCTIS. 


white  walls  and  fantastic  towers,  they  now  rear  themselves  up 
in  solemn  and  shattered  masses  far  and  near  ; softened,  indeed, 
with  strange  harmony  of  clouded  * colors,  but  possessing  the 
whole  scene  with  their  iron  spirit  ; and  rising,  in  all  proba- 
bility, inter  eminences  as  much  prouder  in  actual  elevation  than 
those  of  the  intermediate  rocks,  as  more  powerful  in  their  in- 
fluence over  every  minor  feature  of  the  landscape. 

4.  And  when  the  traveller  proceeds  to  observe  closely  the 
materials  of  which  these  nobler  ranges  are  composed,  he  finds 
also  a complete  change  in  their  internal  structure.  They  are 
no  longer  formed  of  delicate  sand  or  dust — each  particle  of 
that  dust  the  same  as  every  other,  and  the  whole  mass  de- 
pending for  its  hardness  merely  on  their  closely  cemented 
unity  ; but  they  are  now  formed  of  several  distinct  substances 
visibly  unlike  each  other ; and  not  pressed^  but  crystallized 
into  one  mass — crystallized  into  a unity  far  more  perfect 
than  that  of  the  dusty  limestone,  but  yet  without  the  least 
mingling  of  their  several  natures  with  each  other.  Such  a 
rock,  freshly  broken,  has  a spotty,  granulated,  and,  in  almost 
all  instances,  sparkling,  appearance  ; it  requires  a much 
harder  blow  to  break  it  than  the  limestone  or  sandstone  ; but 
when  once  thoroughly  shattered,  it  is  easy  to  separate  from 
each  other  the  various  substances  of  which  it  is  composed, 
and  to  examine  them  in  their  individual  grains  or  crystals  ; of 
which  each  variety  will  be  found  to  have  a different  degree 
of  hardness,  a different  shade  of  color,  a different  character 
of  form,  and  a different  chemical  composition. 

But  this  examination  will  not  enable  the  observer  to  com- 
prehend the  method  either  of  their  formation  or  aggregation, 
at  least  by  any  process  such  as  he  now  sees  taking  place 
around  him  ; he  will  at  once  be  driven  to  admit  that  some 


* “ Clouded referring  to  tlie  peculiar  softness  and  richness  of  the 
dark  lichens  on  many  primitive  rocks,  as  opposed  to  the  whiteness  or 
gray  yellow  of  many  among  the  secondaries.  “ Iron  spirit,”  just  after, 
meaning  a strength  having  the  toughness  of  iron  in  it,  unassailable  ; 
but  I find  with  pleasant  surprise  in  extremely  “old  English”  geology,  a 
large  family  of  these  rooks  called  “ siderous,”  from  the  quantity  of  latent 
iron  they  contain. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


143 


strange  and  powerful  oj)eration  lias  taken  place  upon  these 
rocks,  different  from  any  of  which  he  is  at  present  cognizant.* 
5.  Now,  although  these  three  great  groups  of  rocks  do  indeed 
often  pass  into  each  other  by  imperceptible  gradations,  and 
although  their  peculiar  aspect  is  never  a severe  indication  of 
their  relative  ages,  yet  their  characters  are  for  the  most  part 
so  defined  as  to  make  a strong  impression  on  the  mind  of  an 
ordinary  observer  ; and  their  age  is  also  for  the  most  part 
approximately  indicated  by  their  degrees  of  hardness  and 
crystalline  aspect.  It  does,  indeed,  sometimes  f happen  that 
a soft  and  slimy  clay  will  pass  into  a rock  like  Aberdeen 
granite  by  transitions  so  subtle  that  no  point  of  separation 
can  be  determined  ; and  it  very  often  happens  that  rocks 
like  Aberdeen  granite  are  of  more  recent  formation  than 
certain  beds  of  sandstone  and  limestone.  But  in  spite  of  all 
these  uncertainties  and  exceptions,  I believe  that  unless  actual 
pains  be  taken  to  efface  from  the  mind  its  natural  impressions, 
the  idea  of  three  great  classes  of  rocks  and  earth  will  main- 
tain its  ground  in  the  thoughts  of  the  generally  intelligent 
observer  ; that,  whether  he  desire  it  or  not,  he  will  find  him- 
self throwing  the  soft  and  loose  clays  and  sands  together 
under  one  head  ; placing  the  hard  rocks,  of  a dull,  compact, 
homogeneous  substance,  under  another  head ; and  the 
hardest  rocks,  of  a crystalline,  glittering,  and  various  sub- 
stance, under  a third  head  ; and  having  done  this,  he  wall  also 
find  that,  with  certain  easily  admissible  exce^Dtions,  these 
three  classes  of  rocks  are,  in  every  district  which  he  examines, 
of  three  different  ages  ; that  the  softest  are  the  youngest,  the 
hard  and  homogeneous  ones  are  older,  and  the  crystalline  are 
the  oldest  ; and  he  will,  perhaps,  in  the  end,  find  it  a somewhat 


* The  original  text  proceeded  thus — “ and  farther  inquiry  will  prob- 
ably induce  him  to  admit,  as  more  than  probable,  the  supposition  that 
their  structure  is  in  great  part  owing  to  the  action  of  enormous  lieat  pro- 
longed for  indefinite  periods” — which  sentence  I remove  into  thisnote  to 
prevent  the  lucidity  and  straightforward  descriptional  truth  of  these 
paragraphs  to  be  soiled  with  conjecture. 

f Very  rarely ! I forget  what  instance  I was  thinking  of — anyhow 
the  sentence  is  too  strongly  put. 


144 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


inconvenient  piece  of  respect  to  the  complexity  and  accuracy 
of  modern  geological  science,  if  he  refuse  to  the  three  classes, 
thus  defined  in  his  imagination,  their  ancient  titles  of  Tertiary, 
Secondary,  and  Primary. 

6.  But  however  this  may  be,  there  is  one  lesson  evidently 
intended  to  be  taught  by  the  different  characters  of  these 
rocks,  which  we  must  not  allow  to  escape  us.  We  have  to  ob- 
serve, first,  the  state  of  perfect  powerlessness,  and  loss  of  all 
beauty,  exhibited  in  those  beds  of  earth  in  which  the  sepa- 
rated pieces  or  particles  are  entirely  independent  of  each 
other,  more  especially  in  the  gravel  whose  pebbles  have  all 
been  rolled  into  one  shape ; secondly,  the  greater  degree  of 
permanence,  power,  and  beauty  possessed  by  the  rocks  whose 
component  atoms  have  some  affection  and  attraction  for  each 
other,  though  all  of  one  kind  ; and,  lastly,  the  utmost  form 
and  highest  beauty  of  the  rocks  in  which  the  several  atoms 
have  all  different  shapes,  characters,  and  offices ; but  are  in- 
separably united  by  some  fiery,  or  baptismal,*  process  which 
has  purified  them  all. 

It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  point  out  how  these  natural 
ordinances  seem  intended  f to  teach  us  the  great  truths  which 
are  the  basis  of  all  political  science ; how  the  polishing 
friction  which  separates,  the  affection  that  binds,  and  the 
affliction  that  fuses  and  confirms,  are  accurately  symbolized 
by  the  processes  to  which  the  several  ranks  of  hills  appear  to 
owe  their  present  aspect  ; and  how,  even  if  the  knowledge 
of  those  processes  be  denied  to  us,  that  present  aspect  may  m 
itself  seem  no  imperfect  image  of  the  various  states  of  man- 
kind : first,  that  which  is  powerless  through  total  disorgan- 
ization ; secondly,  that  which,  though  united,  and  in  some 
degree  powerful,  is  yet  incapable  of  great  effort,  or  result, 
owing  to  the  too  great  similarity  and  confusion  of  offices,  both 


* The  words  “or  baptismal  ” now  inserted. 

f Most  people  being  unable  to  imagine  intention  under  the  guise  of 
fixed  law,  I should  have  said  now,  rather  than  “ seem  intended  to  teach 
us,”  *^do,  if  we  will  consider  them,  teach  us.”  See  however,  below,  the 
old  note  to  § 9.  This  6th  paragraph  is  the  germ,  or  rather  bulb,  of 
Ethics  of  the  Dust. 


7iY  MONTIBU.^  .^ANCTIf<. 


145 


in  ranks  and  individuals ; and  finally,  the  perfect  state  of 
brotherhood  and  strength  in  which  each  character  is  clearly 
distinguished,  separately  perfected,  and  employed  in  its 
proper  place  and  office. 

7.  I shall  not,  however,  so  oppose  myself  to  the  views  of  our 
leading  geologists  as  to  retain  here  the  names  of  Primary, 
Secondary,  and  Tertiary  rocks.  But  as  I wish  the  reader  to 
keep  the  ideas  of  the  three  classes  clearly  in  his  mind,  I will 
ask  his  leave  to  give  them  names  which  involve  no  theory,  and 
can  be  liable,  therefore,  to  no  grave  objections.  We  will  call 
the  hard,  and  (generally)  central,  masses.  Crystalline  Rocks, 
because  they  almost  always  present  an  appearance  of  crys- 
tallization.* The  less  hard  substances,  which  appear  compact 
and  homogeneous,  we  will  call  Coherent  Rocks,  and  for  the 
scattered  debris  we  will  use  the  general  term  Diluvium. 

8.  All  these  orders  of  substance  agree  in  one  character,  that 
of  being  more  or  ^ess  frangible  or  soluble.  One  material,  in- 
deed, which  enters  largely  into  the  composition  of  most  of 
them,y?b7,  is  harder  than  iron ; but  even  this,  their  chief 
source  of  strength,  is  easily  broken  by  a sudden  blow  ; and  it 
is  so  combined  in  the  large  rocks  with  softer  substances,  that 
time  and  the  violence  or  chemical  agency  of  the  weather 
invariably  produce  certain  destructive  effects  on  their  masses. 
Some  of  them  become  soft,  and  moulder  away  ; others  break, 
little  by  little,  into  angular  fragments  or  slaty  sheets  ; but  all 
yield  in  some  way  or  other  ; and  the  problem  to  be  solved  in 
every  mountain  range  appears  to  be,  that  under  these  condi- 
tions of  decay,  the  cliffs  and  peaks  may  be  raised  as  high  and 
thrown  into  as  noble  forms,  as  is  possible,  consistently  with 
an  effective,  though  not  perfect,  permanence,  and  a general, 
though  not  absolute,  security. 

9.  Perfect  permanence  and  absolute  security  were  evidently 
in  nowise  intended. f It  would  have  been  as  easy  for  the 


*Not  strongly  enough  put,  this  time.  They  always  are  crystalline, 
whether  they  present  the  appearance  of  it  or  not. 

f I am  well  aware  that  to  the  minds  of  many  persons  nothing  bears  a 
greater  appearance  of  presumption  than  any  attempt  at  reasoning  re- 

10 


146 


IN  M0NTIBU8  SANCTIS. 


Creator  to  have  made  mountains  of  steel  as  of  granite,  oi 
adamant  as  of  lime  ; but  this  was  clearl}'  no  part  of  the  Divine 
counsels  : mountains  were  to  be  destructible  and  frail — to 
melt  under  the  soft  lambency  of  the  streamlet,  to  shiver 
before  the  subtle  wedge  of  the  frost,  to  wither  with  un- 
traceable  decay  in  their  own  substance — and  yet,  under  all 
these  conditions  of  destruction,  to  be  maintained  in  magnifi- 
cent eminence  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

Nor  is  it  in  anywise  difficult  for  us  to  perceive  the  benefi- 
cent reasons  for  this  appointed  frailness  of  the  mountains. 
They  appear  to  be  threefold : the  first,  and  the  most  im- 
portant, that  successive  soils  might  be  supplied  to  the  plains, 
in  the  manner  explained  in  the  last  chapter,  and  that  men 
might  be  furnished  with  a material  for  their  works  of  archi- 
tecture and  sculpture,  at  once  soft  enough  to  be  subd  ued,  and 
hard  enough  to  be  preserved  ; the  second,  that  some  sense  of 
danger  might  always  be  connected  with  the  most  precipitous 
forms,  and  thus  increase  their  sublimity  ; and  the  third,  that 
a subject  of  perpetual  interest  might  be  opened  to  the  human 
mind  in  observing  the  changes  of  form  brought  about  by  time 
on  these  monuments  of  Creation. 

10.  In  order,  therefore,  to  understand  the  method  in  which 
these  various  substances  break,  so  as  to  produce  the  forms 
which  are  of  chief  importance  in  landscape,  as  well  as  the  ex- 
quisite adaptation  of  all  their  qualities  to  the  service  of  men, 
it  will  be  well  that  I should  take  some  note  of  them  in  their 
order ; not  with  any  far-followed  mineralogical  detail,  but 
with  care  enough  to  enable  me  hereafter  to  explain,  wdthout 


specting  tlie  purposes  of  the  Divine  Being ; and  that  in  many  cases  it 
would  be  thought  more  consistent  with  the  modesty  of  humanity  to 
limit  its  endeavor  to  the  ascertaining  of  physical  causes  than  to  form 
conjectures  respecting  Divine  intentions.  But  I believe  this  feeling  to 
be  false  and  dangerous.  Wisdom  can  only  be  demonstrated  in  its  ends, 
and  goodness  only  perceived  in  its  motives.  He  who  in  a morbid  mod- 
esty supposes  that  he  is  incapable  of  apprehending  any  of  the  purposes 
of  God  renders  himself  also  incapable  of  witnessing  His  wisdom  ; and  he 
who  supposes  that  favors  may  be  bestowed  without  intention  will  soon 
learn  to  receive  them  without  gratitude. 


M0NTIBU8  8ANGTI8.  147 

obscurity,  any  phenomena  dependent  upon  such  peculiarities 
of  substance. 

(I  have  cut  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  old  book  in  half  here, 
for  better  arrangement  of  subject.  The  reader  will  perhaps 
forego,  once  in  a way,  without  painful  sense  of  loss,  my  cus- 
tomary burst  of  terminal  eloquence.) 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CH.iPTER  m. 

For  many  reasons,  which  will  a]>pear  one  by  one  in  the  course  of  this 
work,  I think  it  well  to  give,  for  postscript  to  this  chapter,  a translation 
of  Saussure's  introductory  account  of  granite,  published  in  1803,  at 
Ncnchatel,  chez  Louis  Fauche-Borel,  imprimeur  da  Roi  (King  of 
Prussia),  “ Voyages  dans  les  Alpes,”  vol.  i.  chap.  v.  Les  Roches  Com- 
posees.  Granit. 

“ Granites  belong  to  that  class  of  stones  which  naturalists  name  com- 
posed stones,  or  rocks,  or  living  rock,  roc  vif,*  the  saxa  mixta  of  Wal- 
lerius.  This  class  includes  stones  which  are  composed  of  two,  three,  or 
four  different  species  of  stones,  intermixed  under  the  form  of  angular 
grains,  or  folia  (feuillets)  united  by  the  intimacy  of  their  contact,  without 
the  help  of  any  stronger  gluten. 

‘‘  Those  which  divide  themselves  by  folia  are  called  schistous  rocks,  or 
foliated  rocks  (Roches  schisteuses  on  Roches  feuilletees).  Saxa  fissilia, 
Wall.  Those  which  appear  composed  of  grains,  and  which  present 
neither  folia  nor  sensible  veins,  are  named  Rocks  in  mass.  Saxa  solida, 
Wall.  Such  are  the  granites. 

“ It  is  these  two  species  of  rocks  which  form  the  matter  of  the  most 
elevated  mountains,  such  as  the  central  chains  of  the  Alps,  the  Cordil- 
lera, the  Ural,  Caucasus,  and  Altaic  mountains.  One  never  finds  them 
seated  upon  (assises  sur)  mountains  of  slate  (ardoise)  or  of  calcareous 
stone ; they  serve,  on  the  contrary,  for  base  to  these,  and  have  conse- 
quently existed  before  them.  They  bear  then,  by  just  claim,  the  name 


* The  modern  reader  passes  as  merely  poetical  the  words  “ living  rock  ” of 
former  good  writers.  But  living  rock  is  as  distinct  from  dead,  as  heart  of 
oak  from  dry  rot.  In  accuracy,  “living”  is  the  word  used  by  the  natural 
human  sense  to  express  the  difference  between  a crystalline  rock  and  one  of 
mere  coagulated  sand  or  slime. 


U8 


Ili  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


of  primitive  mountains,  while  those  of  slate  and  calcareous  stone  are 
qualified  as  secondary.” 

The  young  reader  will  do  well  to  fix  these  simple  statements  in  his 
head,  and  by  no  means  let  them  be  shaken  in  it.  Modern  geologists 
will  tell  him  that  Mont  Blanc  is  young  ; but  the  date  of  a mountain's 
elevation  is  not  that  of  its  substance.  Granite  no  more  becomes  a sec- 
ondary rock  in  lifting  a bed  of  chalk  than  an  old  man  becomes  a boy 
in  throwing  off  his  bedclothes.  All  modern  geologists  will  tell  you  that 
granite  and  basalt  are  pretty  much  the  same  thing,  that  each  may  be- 
come the  other,  and  any  come  to  the  top.  Recollect  simply,  to  begin 
with,  that  granite  forms  delightful  and  healthy  countries,  basalt  gloomy 
and  oppressive  ones,  and  that,  if  you  have  the  misfortune  to  live  under 
Etna  or  Hecla,  you  and  your  house  may  both  be  buried  in  basalt  to- 
morrow morning  ; but  that  nobody  was  ever  buried  in  granite,  unless 
somebody  paid  for  his  tomb.  Recollect  farther,  that  granite  is  for  the 
most  part  visibly  composed  of  three  substances,  always  easily  recogniz- 
able— quartz,  felspar,  and  mica  ; but  basalt  may  be  made  of  anything 
on  the  face  or  in  the  stomach  of  the  Earth.  And  recollect  finally,  that 
there  was  assuredly  a time  when  the  Earth  had  no  animals  upon  it ; 
another  time  when  it  had  only  nasty  and  beastly  animals  upon  it  ; and 
that  at  this  time  it  has  a great  many  beautiful  and  angelic  animals  upon 
it,  tormented  out  of  their  lives  by  one  extremely  foolish  two-legged 
one.  To  these  three  periods,  the  first  of  chaotic  solitude,  the  second  of 
rampant  monstrosity,  and  the  third  of  ruthless  beauty,  the  names  of 
Primary,  Secondary,  and  Tertiary  may  justly  hold  for  ever — be  the 
Fourth  Age  what  it  may. 


CCELI  ENAEEANT. 


STUDIES  OF  CLOUD  FORM 

AND  OP  ITS  VISIBIiE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OF 


“MODEEN  PAINTEES.” 


it 


If 


PEEFAOE. 


The  studies  of  tlie  nature  and  form  of  clouds,  reprinted  in 
the  following  pages  from  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of 
“Modern  Painters,”  will  be  in  this  series  third  in  order,  as 
they  are  in  those  volumes,  of  the  treatises  on  natural  history 
which  w'ere  there  made  the  foundation  of  judgment  in  land- 
scape art.  But  the  essay  on  trees  will  require  more  careful 
annotation  than  I have  at  present  time  for,  and  I am  also  de- 
sirous of  placing  these  cloud  studies  quickly  in  the  hands  of 
anyone  who  may  have  been  interested  in  my  account  of 
recent  storms. 

I find  nothing  to  alter,^  and  little  to  explain,  in  the  follow- 
ing portions  of  my  former  work,  in  which  such  passages  as 
the  eighth  and  ninth  paragraphs  of  the  opening  chapter — usu- 
ally thought  of  by  the  public  merely  as  word-painting,  but 
wdiicli  are  in  reality  accurately  abstracted,  and  finally  concen- 
trated, expressions  of  the  general  laws  of  natural  phenomena  f 
— are  indeed  among  the  best  I have  ever  written,  and  in  their 


* Sometimes  a now  useless  reference  to  other  parts  of  tlie  hoolc  is 
omitted,  or  one  necessary  to  connect  tlie  sentence  broken  by  such  omis- 
sion ; otherwise  I do  not  retoncli  the  original  text. 

•f  Thus  the  sentence  at  page  7,  ‘ murmuring  only  when  the  winds 
raise  tliem,  or  rocks  divide.”  does  not  describe,  or  word-paint,  the  sound 
of  waters,  but  (with  only  the  admitted  art  of  a carefully  reiterated  “ r ”) 
sums  the  general  causes  of  it  ; while,  again,  the  immediately  following 
one,  defining  the  limitations  of  sea  and  river,  “ restrained  by  established 
shores,  and  guided  tlirougli  unchanging  channels,”  attempts  no  word- 
painting  either  of  coast  or  burnside  ; but  states,  with  only  such  orna- 
ment of  its  simplicity  as  could  be  got  of  the  doubled  “ t”  and  doubled 
“ ch,”  the  fact  of  the  stability  of  existing  rock  structure  which  I was,  at 
that  time,  alone  among  geologists  in  asserting. 


152 


PREFACE. 


way,  I am  not  ashamed  to  express  my  conviction,  unlikely  to 
be  surpassed  by  any  other  author.  But  it  may  be  necessary 
to  advise  the  student  of  these  now  isolated  chapters  not  to  in- 
terpret any  of  their  expressions  of  awe  or  wonder  as  meaning 
to  attribute  any  supernatural,  or  in  any  special  sense  miracu- 
lous, character  to  the  phenomena  described,  other  than  that 
of  their  adaptation  to  human  feeling  or  need.  I did  not  in 
the  least  mean  to  insinuate,  because  it  was  not  easy  to  explain 
the  buoyancy  of  clouds,  that  they  were  supported  in  the  air 
as  St.  Francis  in  his  ecstasy  ; or  because  the  forms  of  a 
thunder-cloud  were  terrific,  that  they  were  less  natural  than 
those  of  a diamond  ; but  in  all  the  forms  and  actions  of  non- 
sentient  things,  I recognized  (as  more  at  length  explained  in 
the  conclusion  of  my  essay  on  the  plague  cloud)  constant 
miracle,  and  according  to  the  need  and  deserving  of  man, 
more  or  less  constantly  manifest  Deity.  Time,  and  times, 
have  since  passed  over  my  head,  and  have  taught  me  to  hope 
for  more  than  this  — nay,  perhaps  so  much  more  as  that  in 
English  cities,  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  in  His  name, 
such  vision  as  that  recorded  by  the  sea-king  Dandolo  * 
might  again  be  seen, when  he  was  commanded  that  in  the  midst 
of  the  city  he  should  build  a church,  “ in  the  place  above 
which  he  should  see  a red  cloud  rest.” 

J.  Kuskin. 

Oxford,  November  %th,  1884. 


* St.  Mark’s, 


CCELI  ENAKBANT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  FIRMAMENT. 

Modern  Painters^''  Vol.  IV.,  Part  Y.,  Gimp.  VI. 

1.  The  task  which  we  now  enter  upon,  as  explained  in  the 
close  of  the  preceding  chapter,  is  the  ascertaining  as  far  as 
possible  what  the  proper  effect  of  the  natural  beauty  of  differ- 
ent objects  ought  to  be  on  the  human  mind,  and  the  degree 
in  v/hich  this  nature  of  theirs,  and  true  influence,  have  been 
understood  and  transmitted  by  Turner. 

I mean  to  begin  with  the  mountains,  for  the  sake  of  conve- 
nience in  illustration,  but,  in  the  proper  order  of  thought, 
the  clouds  ought  to  be  considered  first ; and  I think  it  will  be 
well,  in  this  intermediate  chapter,  to  bring  to  a close  that  line 
of  reasoning  by  which  we  have  gradually,  as  I hope,  strength- 
ened the  defences  around  the  love  of  mystery,  which  distin- 
guishes our  modern  art ; and  to  show,  on  final  and  conclusive 
anthority,  what  noble  things  these  clouds  are,  and  with  what 
feeling  it  seems  to  be  intended  by  their  Creator  that  we  should 
contemplate  them. 

2.  The  account  given  of  the  stages  of  creation  in  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  is  in  every  respect  clear  and  intelligible  to 
the  simplest  reader,  except  in  the  statement  of  the  work 
of  the  second  day.  I suppose  that  this  statement  is  passed 
over  by  careless  readers  as  a sublime  mystery  which  was  not 
intended  to  be  understood.  But  there  is  no  mystery  in  any 
other  part  of  the  chapter,  and  it  seems  to  me  unjust  to  con- 
clude that  any  was  intended  here. 


154 


CCELI  ENARBANT. 


And  the  passage  ought  to  be  peculiarly  interesting  to  us,  as 
being  the  first  in  the  Bible  in  which  the  heavens  are  named, 
and  the  only  one  in  which  the  word  “ Heaven,”  all-important 
as  that  word  is  to  our  understanding  of  the  most  precious 
promises  of  Scripture,  receives  a definite  explanation. 

Let  us,  therefore,  see  whether  by  a careful  comparison  of 
the  verse  with  other  passages  in  which  the  word  occurs,  we 
may  not  be  able  to  arrive  at  as  clear  an  understanding  of  this 
portion  of  the  chapter  as  of  the  rest. 

3.  Ill  the  first  place  the  English  word  “ Firmament  ” itself 
is  useless,  because  we  never  employ  it  but  as  a synonym  of 
heaven  ; it  conveys  no  other  distinct  idea  to  us ; and  the  verse, 
though  from  our  familiarity  with  it  we  imagine  that  it  pos- 
sesses meaning,  has  in  realit}^  no  more  point  or  value  than  if 
it  were  written,  “God  said.  Let  there  be  a something  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  something  Heaved.” 

But  the  marginal  reading,  “ Expansion,”  has  definite  value  ; 
and  the  statement  that  “ God  said.  Let  there  be  an  expansion 
in  the  midst  of  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  expansion 
Heaven,”  has  an  apprehensible  meaning. 

4.  Accepting  this  expression  as  the  one  intended,  we  have 
next  to  ask  what  expansion  there  is  between  two  waters,  de- 
scribable  by  the  term  Heaven.  Milton  adopts  the  term  “ ex- 
panse ; ” * but  he  understands  it  of  the  whole  volume  of  the 
air  which  surrounds  the  earth.  Whereas,  so  far  as  we  can  tell, 
there  is  no  water  beyond  the  air,  in  the  fields  of  space  ; and 
the  whole  expression  of  division  of  waters  from  waters  is  thus 
rendered  valueless. 

5.  Now,  with  respect  to  this  whole  chapter,  we  must  re- 
member always  that  it  is  intended  for  the  instruction  of  ail 
mankind,  not  for  the  learned  reader  only  ; and  that,  therefore, 
the  most  simple  and  natural  interpretation  is  the  likeliest  in 


* “God  made 

The  firmament,  expanse  of  liquid,  pure, 
Transparent,  elemental  air,  diffused 
In  circuit  to  the  uttermost  convex 
Of  this  great  round.” 


— Paradise  Lost^  Book  VII 


C(ELI  ENARRANT. 


155 


genera]  to  be  the  true  one.  An  unscientific  reader  knows  lit- 
tle about  the  manner  in  which  the  volume  of  the  atmosphere 
surrounds  the  earth  ; but  I imagine  that  he  could  hardly  glance 
at  the  sky  when  rain  was  falling  in  the  distance,  and  see  the 
level  line  of  the  bases  of  the  clouds  from  which  the  shower 
descended,  without  being  able  to  attach  an  instant  and  easy 
meaning  to  the  words  “ expansion  in  the  midst  of  the  waters.’’ 
And,  if  having  once  seized  this  idea,  he  proceeded  to  examine 
it  more  accurate!}’,  he  would  perceive  at  once,  if  he  had  ever 
noticed  anything  of  the  nature  of  clouds,  that  the  level  line  of 
their  bases  did  indeed  most  severely  and  stringently  divide 
“ waters  from  waters,”  that  is  to  say,  divide  water  in  its  col- 
lective and  tangible  state,  from  water  in  its  divided  and  aereal 
state ; or  the  waters  which  fall  and  flow,  from  those  which 
nsc  and  flow.  Next,  if  we  try  this  interpretation  in  the  theo- 
logical sense  of  the  word  Heaven,  and  examine  whether  the 
clouds  are  spoken  of  as  God’s  dwelling-place,  we  find  God 
going  before  the  Israelites  in  a pillar  of  cloud  ; revealing  Him- 
self in  a cloud  on  Sinai  ; appearing  in  a cloud  on  the  mercy 
seat  ; filling  the  Temple  of  Solomon  v/ith  the  cloud  -when  its 
^ dedication  is  accepted  ; appearing  in  a great  cloud  to  Ezekiel ; 
ascending  into  a cloud  before  the  eyes  of  the  disciples  on 
Mount  Olivet,  and  in  like  manner  returning  to  Judgment. 
“ Behold  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him.” 
“ Then  shall  they  see  the  Son  of  Man  coming  in  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  wdth  power  and  great  glory.”^  While  farther,  the 
“ clouds  ” and  “ heavens  ” are  used  as  interchangeable  words 
in  those  Psalms  wdiich  most  distinctly  set  forth  the  powder  of 
God  : “ He  bowed  the  heavens  also,  and  came  down  ; He  made 
darkness  pavilions  around  about  Him,  dark  waters,  and  thick 
clouds  of  the  skies.”  And  again  ; “ Tliy  mercy,  O Lord,  is  in 
the  heavens,  and  Thy  faithfulness  reacheth  unto  the  clouds.” 
And  again : “ His  excellency  is  over  Israel,  and  His  strength 


* The  reader  may  refer  to  the  following  texts,  which  it  is  needless  to 
quote; — Exod.  xiii.  21,  xvi.  10,  xix,  9,  xxiv.  16,  xxxiv.  5 ; Levit.  xvi.  2 ; 
Num.  X.  34  ; Judges  v.  4 ; 1 Kings  viii.  10  ; Ezek.  i.  4 ; Dan.  vii.  13  ; 
Matt.  xxiv.  30  ; 1 Thess.  iv.  17  ; E,ev.  i.  7. 


156 


GCELI  EJSfAIUlAI^T. 


is  in  the  clouds.”  Again  : “ The  clouds  poured  out  water, 
the  skies  sent  out  a sound,  the  voice  of  Thy  thunder  was  in 
the  heaven.”  Again  : “Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about 
Him,  righteousness  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  His 
throne  ; the  heavens  declare  His  righteousness,  and  all  the 
people  see  His  glory.” 

6.  In  all  these  passages  the  meaning  is  unmistakable,  if 
they  possess  definite  meaning  at  all.  We  are  too  apt  to  take 
them  merely  for  sublime  and  vagUe  imageiy,  and  therefore 
gradually  to  lose  the  apprehension  of  their  life  and  power. 
The  expression,  “ He  bowed  the  heavens,”  for  instance,  is,  I 
suppose,  received  by  most  readers  as  a magnificent  hyperbole, 
having  reference  to  some  peculiar  and  fearful  manifestation 
of  God’s  power  to  the  WTiter  of  the  Psalm  in  which  the  words 
occur.  But  the  expression  either  has  plain  meaning,  or  it  has 

meaning.  Understand  by  the  term  “Heavens”  the  com- 
pass of  infinite  space  around  the  earth,  and  the  expression, 
“bowed  the  Heavens,”  however  sublime,  is  wholly  without 
meaning  ; infinite  space  cannot  be  bent  or  bowed.  But 
understand  by  the  “ Heavens  ” the  veil  of  clouds  above  the 
earth,  and  the  expression  is  neither  hyperbolical  nor  obscure  ; 
it  is  pure,  plain,  and  accurate  truth,  and  it  describes  God, 
not  as  revealing  Himself  in  any  peculiar  way  to  David,  but 
doing  what  He  is  still  doing  before  our  own  eyes  day  by  day. 
By  accepting  the  words  in  their  simple  sense,  we  are  thus  led 
to  apprehend  the  immediate  presence  of  the  Deity,  and  His 
purpose  of  manifesting  Himself  as  near  us  whenever  the 
storm-cloud  stoops  upon  its  course  ; while  by  our  vague  and 
inaccurate  acceptance  of  the  words  we  remove  the  idea  of  His 
presence  far  from  us,  into  a region  which  we  can  neither  see 
nor  know  ; and  graduall^^  from  the  close  realization  of  a liv- 
ing God  wdio  “maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot,”  we  refine  and 
explain  ourselves  into  dim  and  distant  suspicion  of  an  inac- 
tive God,  inhabiting  inconceivable  places,  and  fading  into  the 
multitudinous  formalisms  of  the  laws  of  Nature. 

7.  All  errors  of  this  kind — and  in  the  present  day  we  are 
in  constant  and  grievous  danger  of  falling  into  them — arise 
from  the  originally  mistaken  idea  that  man  can,  “by  search- 


VaSLI  ENABRANT. 


157 


ing,  find  out  God — find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  ; ” 
that  is  to  say,  by  help  of  courses  of  reasoning  and  accumula- 
tions of  science,  apprehend  the  nature  of  the  Deity  in  a more 
exalted  and  more  accurate  manner  than  in  a state  of  compara- 
tive ignorance  ; whereas  it  is  clearly  necessary,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  time,  that  God’s  way  of  revealing 
Himself  to  His  creatures  should  be  a simjjle  way,  which  all 
those  creatures  may  understand.  Whether  taught  or  un- 
taught, whether  of  mean  capacity  or  enlarged,  it  is  necessary 
that  communion  with  their  Creator  should  be  possible  to  all  ; 
and  the  admission  to  such  communion  must  be  rested,  not  on 
their  having  a knowledge  of  astronomy,  but  on  their  having  a 
human  soul.  In  order  to  render  this  communion  possible, 
the  Deity  has  stooped  from  His  throne,  and  has  not  onl}^  in 
the  person  of  the  Son,  taken  upon  Him  the  veil  of  our  human 
Jiesh,  but,  in  the  person  of  the  Father,  taken  upon  Him  the 
veil  of  our  human  thoughts,  and  permitted  us,  by  His  own 
spoken  authority,  to  conceive  Him  simply  and  clearly  as  a 
loving  Father  and  Friend  ; — a being  to  be  walked  with  and 
reasoned  with  ; to  be  moved  by  our  entreaties,  angered  by 
our  rebellion,  alienated  by  our  coldness,  pleased  by  our  love, 
and  glorified  by  our  labor  ; and  finally,  to  be  beheld  in  imme- 
diate and  active  presence  in  all  the  powers  and  changes  of 
creation. 

This  conception  of  God,  which  is  the  child’s,  is  evidently 
the  only  one  which  can  be  universal,  and  therefore,  the  only 
one  which  for  us  can  be  true.  The  moment  that,  in  our  pride 
of  heart,  we  refuse  to  accept  the  condescension  of  the  Al- 
mighty, and  desire  Him,  instead  of  stooping  to  hold  our 
hands,  to  rise  up  before  us  into  His  glory — we,  hoping  that 
by  standing  on  a grain  of  dust  or  two  of  human  knowledge 
higher  than  our  fellows,  we  may  behold  the  Creator  as  He 
rises — God  takes  us  at  our  word  ; He  rises,  into  His  own 
invisible  and  inconceivable  Majesty  ; He  goes  forth  upon  the 
ways  which  are  not  our  ways,  and  retires  into  the  thoughts 
which  are  not  our  thoughts ; and  we  are  left  alone.  And 
presently  we  say  in  our  vain  hearts,  “ There  is  no  God.” 

8.  I w’ould  desire,  therefore,  to  receive  God’s  account  of 


158 


CCELI  EN ARRANT. 


His  own  creation  as,  under  the  ordinary  limits  of  human 
knowledge  and  imagination,  it  would  be  received  by  a simple- 
minded  man  ; and  finding  that  the  “ heavens  and  the  earth  ” 
are  spoken  of  always  as  having  something  like  equal  relation 
to  each  other  (“  thus  the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  finished, 
and  all  the  host  of  them”),  I reject  at  once  all  idea  of  the 
term  “ Heavens  ” being  intended  to  signify  the  infinity  of 
space  inhabited  by  countless  sand,  with  which  space  though 
we  measured  not  the  earth  only,  but  the  sun  itself,  with  all 
the  solar  system,  no  relation  of  equality  or  comparison  could 
be  inferred.  But  I suppose  the  heavens  to  mean  that  part  of 
the  creation  which  holds  equal  companionship  with  our  globe  ; 
I understand  the  “rolling  of  those  heavens  together  as  a scroll  ” 
to  be  an  equal  and  relative  destruction  with  the  “melting  of 
the  elements  in  fervent  heat  ; ” * and  I understand  the  making 
the  firmament  to  signify  that,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
most  magnificent  ordinance  of  the  clouds — the  ordinance,  that 
as  the  great  plain  of  waters  was  formed  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  so  also  a plain  of  waters  should  be  stretched  along  the 
height  of  air,  and  the  face  of  the  cloud  answer  the  face  of  the 
ocean  ; and  this  upper  and  heavenly  plain  should  be  of  waters, 
as  it  were,  glorified  in  their  nature,  no  longer  quenching  the 


* Compare  also  Job  xxxvi.  29,  “ The  spreading  of  the  clouds,  and 
the  noise  of  His  tabernacle;'''  and  xxxviii.  33,  “ Knowest  thou  the 
ordinances  of  heaven  ? canst  thou  set  the  dominion  thereof  in  the 
earth  ? canst  thou  lift  up  thj  voice  to  the  clouds  ? ” 

Observe  that  in  the  passage  of  Addison’s  well-known  hjmn — 

“ The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue,  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim  ” — 

the  writer  has  clearly  the  true  distinctions  in  his  mind  ; he  does  not 
use  his  words,  as  we  too  often  accept  them,  in  vain  tautology.  By  the 
spaciovs  firmament  he  means  the  clouds,  using  the  word  “ spacious” 
to  mark  the  true  meaning  of  the  Hebrew  term  ; the  blue  ethereal  sky  is 
the  real  air  or  ether,  blue  above  the  clouds ; the  heavens  are  the  starry 
space,  for  which  he  uses  this  word,  less  accurately  indeed  than  the 
others,  but  as  the  only  one  available  for  his  meaning. 


CCELI  ENARRANT. 


159 


fire,  but  now  bearing  fire  in  their  ow^n  bosoms  ; no  longer 
murmuring  only  when  the  winds  raise  them  or  rocks  divide, 
but  answering  each  other  with  their  own  voices  from  pole  to 
pole  ; no  longer  restrained  by  established  shores,  and  guided 
through  unchanging  channels,  but  going  forth  at  their  pleas- 
ure like  the  armies  of  the  angels,  and  choosing  their  encam[)- 
ments  upon  the  heights  of  the  hills  ; no  longer  hurried  down- 
ward for  ever,  moving  but  to  fall,  nor  lost  in  the  lightless 
accumulation  of  the  abyss,  but  covering  the  east  and  west 
with  the  waving  of  their  wings,  and  robing  the  gloom  of  the 
farther  infinite  with  a vesture  of  divers  colors,  of  which  the 
threads  are  purple  and  scarlet,  and  the  embroideries  fiame. 

9.  This,  I believe,  is  the  ordinance  of  the  firmament ; and 
it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  midst  of  the  material  nearness  of 
these  heavens  God  means  us  to  acknowledge  His  own  imme- 
diate presence  as  visiting,  judging,  and  blessing  us.  “ The 
earth  shook,  the  heavens  also  dropped,  at  the  presence  of 
God.”  “He  doth  set  His  bow  in  the  cloud,”  and  thus  re- 
news, in  the  sound  of  every  drooping  swathe  of  rain.  His 
promises  of  everlasting  love.  “ In  them  hath  He  set  a taber- 
nacle for  the  sun,”  whose  burning  ball,  which,  without  the 
firmament,  would  be  seen  but  as  an  intolerable  and  scorchinc’ 
circle  in  the  blackness  of  vacuity,  is  by  that  firmament  sur- 
rounded with  gorgeous  service,  and  tempered  by  mediatorial 
ministries ; by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  golden  pavement 
is  spread  for  his  chariot  wheels  at  morning  ; by  the  firmament 
of  clouds  the  temple  is  built  for  his  presence  to  fill  with  light 
at  noon  ; by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  purple  veil  is  closed 
at  evening  round  the  sanctuary  of  his  rest ; by  the  mists  of  the 
firmament  his  implacable  light  is  divided,  and  its  separated 
fierceness  appeased  into  the  soft  blue  that  fills  the  depth  of 
distance  with  its  bloom,  and  the  flush  with  which  the  mouio 
tains  burn  as  they  drink  the  overflomng  of  the  dayspring. 
And  in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unendurable  sun  with  men, 
through  the  shadows  of  the  firmament,  God  would  seem  to 
set  forth  the  stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men,  upon  the 
throne  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all  the  worlds, 
and  the  inhabitor  of  eternity,  we  cannot  behold  Him  ; but  as 


160 


G(ELI  ENARRANT. 


the  Judge  of  the  earth  and  the  Preserver  of  men,  those 
heavens  are  indeed  His  dwelling-place.  “ Swear  not,  neither 
by  heaven,  for  it  is  God’s  throne ; nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is 
His  footstool.”  And  all  those  passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful 
shower  and  grateful  shade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver 
palaces  built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds 
and  threatening  thunders,  and  glories  of  colored  robe  and 
cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen  in  our  hearts  the  acceptance, 
and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the  simple  words,  “ Our 
Father,  which  art  in  heaven.” 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 

Modern  Painiersd^  Vol.  K,  Part  VII.,  Chap.  /. 

1.  We  have  seen  tliat  when  the  earth  had  to  be  prepared 
for  the  habitation  of  man,  a veil,  as  it  were,  of  intermediate 
'being  was  spread  between  him  and  its  darkness,  in  which 
were  joined,  in  a subdued  measure,  the  stability  and  insensi- 
bility of  the  earth,  and  the  passion  and  perishing  of  man- 
kind. 

But  the  heavens,  also,  had  to  be  prepared  for  his  habita- 
tion. 

Between  their  burning  light— their  deep  vacuity,  and  man, 
as  between  the  earth’s  gloom  of  iron  substance,  and  man,  a 
veil  had  to  be  spread  of  intermediate  being  ; which  should 
aj^pease  the  unendurable  glory  to  the  level  of  human  feeble- 
ness, and  sign  the  changeless  motion  of  the  heavens  with  a 
semblance  of  human  vicissitude. 

Between  the  earth  and  man  arose  the  leaf.  Between  the 
heaven  and  man  came  the  cloud.  His  life  being  partly  as  the 
falling  leaf,  and  partly  as  the  flying  vapor. 

2.  Has  the  reader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are  ? 
We  had  some  talk  about  them  long  ago,  and  25erhaps  thought 
their  nature,  though  at  that  time  not  clear  to  us,  would  be 
easily  enough  understandable  when  we  put  ourselves  seriously 
to  make  it  out.  Shall  we  begin  with  one  or  two  easiest 
questions  ? 

That  mist  wdiich  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the  valley, 
level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  rise  as  if 
through  an  inundation — why  is  it  so  heavy  ? and  why  does  it 
lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail  that  it  will  melt  away 
utterly  into  splendor  of  morning,  when  the  sun  has  shone  on 
11 


162 


CCELI  ENABBANT, 


it  but  a few  moments  more  ? Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge 
and  firm,  with  outlines  as  of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the 
beating  of  the  high  sun  full  on  their  fiery  flanks — why  are 
they  so  light — their  bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the 
heads  of  Alps  ? why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun 
rises,  but  as  he  descends,  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight  clear, 
while  the  valley  vapor  gains  again  upon  the  earth  like  a 
shroud  ? 

Or  that  ghost  of  a cloud,  which  steals  by  yonder  clump  of 
pines  ; nay,  which  does  not  steal  by  them,  but  haunts  them, 
wreathing  yet  round  them,  and  yet — and  yet,  slowly  ; now 
falling  in  a fair  waved  line  like  a woman’s  veil ; now  fading, 
now  gone  ; we  look  away  for  an  instant,  and  look  back,  and  it 
is  again  there.  What  has  it  to  do  with  that  clump  of  pines, 
that  it  broods  by  them  and  waves  itself  among  their  branches, 
to  and  fro  ? Has  it  hidden  a cloudy  treasure  among  the 
moss  at  their  roots,  which  it  watches  thus?  Or  has  some 
strong  enchanter  charmed  it  into  fond  returning,  or  bound  it 
fast  within  those  bars  of  bough  ? And  yonder  filmy  crescent, 
bent  like  an  archer’s  bow  above  the  snowy  summit,  the  high- 
est of  all  the  hill — that  white  arch  which  never  forms  but 
over  the  supreme  crest — how  is  it  stayed  there,  repelled  ap- 
parently from  the  snow — nowhere  touching  it,  the  clear  sky 
seen  between  it  and  the  mountain  edge,  yet  never  leaving  it — 
poised  as  a white  bird  hovers  over  its  nest? 

Or  those  war-clouds  that  gather  on  the  horizon,  dragon- 
crested,  tongued  with  fire  ; how  is  their  barbed  strength 
bridled?  what  bits  are  these  they  are  champing  wdth  their  va- 
porous lips  ; flinging  off  flakes  of  black  foam  ? Leagued  levia- 
thans of  the  Sea  of  Heaven,  out  of  their  nostrils  goeth  smoke, 
and  their  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the  morning  ; the  sword 
of  him  that  layeth  at  them  cannot  hold  the  spear,  the  dart, 
nor  the  habergeon.  Where  ride  the  captains  of  their  armies  ? 
Where  are  set  the  measures  of  their  march  ? Fierce  mur- 
murers,  answering  each  other  from  morning  until  evening — 
what  rebuke  is  this  which  has  awed  them  into  peace  ? — ^what 
hand  has  reined  them  back  by  the  way  by  which  they 
cam©  ? 


CCELT  ENARRANT, 


163 


3.  I know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  questions 

like  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I rather  be- 
lieve that  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  clouds  never  will  be 
understood  by  us  at  all.  “ Kiiowest  thou  the  balancings  of 
the  clouds  ? ” Is  the  answer  ever  to  be  one  of  pride  ? “ The 

wondrous  works  of  Him  which  is  in  knowledge  ?”  Is 

our  knowledge  ever  to  be  so  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  most  discouraging  consequences  of  the 
varied  character  of  this  work  of  mine,  that  I am  wholly  unable 
to  take  note  of  the  advance  of  modern  science.  What  has 
conclusively  been  discovered  or  observed  about  clouds  I know 
not  ; but  by  the  chance  inquiry  possible  to  me  I find  no  book 
which  fairly  states  the  difficulties  of  accounting  for  even  the 
ordinary  aspects  of  the  sky.  I shall,  therefore,  be  able  in  this 
section  to  do  little  more  than  suggest  inquiries  to  the  reader, 
putting  the  subject  in  a clear  form  for  him.  All  men  ac- 
customed to  investigation  will  confirm  me  in  saying  that  it  is 
a great  step  when  'we  are  personally  quite  certain  what  we  do 
not  know. 

4.  First,  then,  I believe  we  do  not  know  what  makes  clouds 
float.  Clouds  are  water,  in  some  fine  form  or  another  ; but 
water  is  heavier  than  air,  and  the  finest  form  you  can  give  a 
heavy  thing  will  not  make  it  float  in  a light  tiling.'^  On  it, 
yes,  as  a boat  ; but  in  it,  no.  Clouds  are  not  boats,  nor  boat- 
shaped, and  they  float  in  the  air,  not  on  the  top  of  it.  “ Nay, 
but  though  unlike  boats,  may  they  not  be  like  feathers  ? If 
out  of  quill  substance  there  may  be  constructed  eider-down, 
and  out  of  vegetable  tissue,  thistle-down,  both  buoyant  enough 
for  a time,  surely  of  water-tissue  may  be  constructed  also 
water-down,  which  will  be  buoyant  enough  for  all  cloudy  pur- 
poses.” Not  so.  Throw  out  your  eider  plumage  in  a calm 
day,  and  it  will  all  come  settling  to  the  ground — slowly  indeed. 


* [Compare  the  old  note  to  § 6 : but  I bad  not,  when  I wrote  it,  enough 
reflected  on  the  horrible  buoyancy  of  smoke,  nor  did  I know  over  what 
spaces  volcanic  ashes  were  diffusible.  Will  any  of  my  scientific  friends 
now  state  for  me  the  approximate  weight  and  bulk  of  a particle  of  dust 
of  any  solid  substance  which  would  be  buoyant  in  air  of  given  density  ?J 


C(ELI  ENARRANT. 


lOi 

to  aspect ; but  practically  so  fast  that  all  our  finest  clouds 
would  be  here  in  a heap  about  our  ears  in  an  hour  or  two,  if 
they  were  only  made  of  water  feathers.  “ But  may  they  not 
be  quill  feathers,  and  have  air  inside  them  ? May  not  all  their 
particles  be  minute  little  balloons?” 

A balloon  only  floats  when  the  air  inside  it  is  either  specifi- 
cally, or  by  heating,  lighter  than  the  air  it  floats  in.  If  the 
cloud-feathers  had  w^arm  air  inside  their  quills,  a cloud  would 
be  warmer  than  the  air  about  it,  which  it  is  not  (I  believe). 
And  if  the  cloud-feathers  had  hydrogen  inside  their  quills,  a 
cloud  would  be  unwholesome  for  breathing,  which  it  is  not — 
at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 

“ But  may  they  not  have  nothing  inside  their  quills  ? ” 
Then  they  would  rise,  as  bubbles  do  through  water,  just  as 
certainly  as,  if  they  w^ere  solid  feathers,  they  would  fall.  All 
our  clouds  would  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  air,  and  swim  in 
eddies  of  cloud-foam. 

“ But  is  not  that  just  w^hat  they  do  ? ” No.  They  float  at 
different  heights,  and  with  definite  forms,  in  the  body  of  the 
air  itself.  If  they  rose  like  foam,  the  sky  on  a cloudy  day 
would  look  like  a very  large  flat  glass  of  champagne  seen  from 
below,  with  a stream  of  bubbles  (or  clouds)  going  up  as  fast 
as  they  could  to  a flat  foam-ceiling. 

“But  may  they  not  be  just  so  nicely  mixed  out  of  some- 
thing and  nothing,  as  to  float  where  they  are  wanted  ? ” 

Yes  : that  is  just  what  they  not  only  may,  but  must  be  ; only 
this  way  of  mixing  something  and  nothing  is  the  very  thing 
I want  to  explain  or  have  explained,  and  cannot  do  it,  nor  get 
it  done. 

5.  Except  thus  far.  It  is  conceivable  that  minute  hollow 
spherical  globules  might  be  formed  of  water,  in  which  the  en- 
closed vacuity  just  balanced  the  w^eight  of  the  enclosing  water, 
and  that  the  arched  sphere  formed  by  the  watery  film  was 
strong  enough  to  prevent  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  from 
breaking  it  in.  Such  a globule  would  float  like  a balloon  at 
the  height  in  the  atmosphere  where  the  equipoise  between  the 
vacuum  it  enclosed,  and  its  own  excess  of  weight  above  that 
of  the  air,  was  exact.  It  would,  probably,  approach  its  com- 


VGiJLI  ENARllANT. 


165 


panion  globules  by  reciprocal  attraction,  and  form  aggrega- 
tions which  might  be  visible. 

This  is,  I believe,  the  view  usually  taken  by  meteorologists. 
T state  it  as  a possibility,  to  be  taken  into  account  in  examin- 
ing the  question — a possibility  confirmed  by  the  scriptural 
words  which  I have  taken  for  the  title  of  this  chapter. 

6.  Nevertheless,  I state  it  as  a possibility  only,  not  seeing 
how  any  known  operation  of  physical  law  could  explain  the 
formation  of  such  molecules.  This,  however,  is  not  the  only 
difficulty.  Whatever  shape  the  water  is  thrown  into,  it  seems 
at  first  improbable  that  it  should  lose  its  propert}^  of  wetness. 
Minute  division  of  rain,  as  in  “Scotch  mist,”  makes  it  capable 
of  floating  farther, or  floating  up  and  down  a little,  just  as 
dust  will  float,  though  pebbles  will  not ; or  gold-leaf,  though 
a sovereign  will  not  ; but  minutely  divided  rain  wets  as  much 
as  any  other  kind,  whereas  a cloud,  partially  always,  some- 


* The  buoyancy  of  solid  bodies  of  a given  specific  gravity,  in  a given 
fluid,  depends,  flrst  on  tlieir  siise,  then  on  their  forms. 

First,  on  their  size  ; that  is  to  say,  on  the  proportion  of  the  magnitude 
of  the  object  (irrespective  of  tlie  distribution  of  its  particles)  to  the 
magnitude  of  the  particles  of  the  air. 

Thus,  a grain  of  sand  is  buoyant  in  wind,  but  a large  stone  is  not; 
and  pebbles  and  sand  are  buoyant  in  water  in  proportion  to  their  small- 
ness, fine  dust  taking  long  to  sink,  while  a large  stone  sinks  at  once. 
Thus,  we  see  that  water  may  be  arranged  in  drops  of  any  magnitude, 
from  the  largest  rain-drop,  about  the  size  of  a large  pea,  to  an  atom  so 
small  as  not  to  be  separatel}’’  visible,  the  smallest  rain  passing  gradually 
internist.  Of  these  drops  of  different  sizes  (supposing  the  strength  of 
the  wind  the  same),  the  largest  fall  fastest,  the  smaller  drops  are  more 
buoyant,  and  the  small  misty  rain  floats  about  like  a cloud,  as  often  up 
as  down,  so  that  an  umbrella  is  useless  in  it ; though  in  a heavy  thunder- 
storm, if  there  is  no  wind,  one  may  stand  gathered  up  under  an  um- 
brella without  a drop  touching  the  feet. 

Secondly,  buoyancy  depends  on  the  amount  of  surface  which  a 
given  weight  of  the  substance  exposes  to  the  resistance  of  the  substance 
it  floats  in.  Thus,  gold-leaf  is  in  a high  degree  buoyant,  while  the 
same  quantity  of  gold  in  a compact  grain  would  fall  like  a shot ; and  a 
feather  is  buoyant,  though  the  same  quantity  of  animal  matter  in  a 
compact  form  would  be  as  heavy  as  a little  stone.  A slate  blows  far 
from  a house-top,  while  a brick  falls  vertically,  or  nearly  so. 


IGG 


C(ELI  ENABRANT. 


times  entii’ely,  loses  its  power  of  moistening.  Some  low 
clouds  look,  when  you  are  in  them,  as  if  they  were  made  of 
specks  of  dust,  like  short  hair  ; and  these  clouds  are  entirely 
dry.  And  also  many  clouds  will  wet  some  substances,  but 
not  others.  So  that  we  must  grant  further,  if  we  are  to  be 
happy  in  our  theory,  that  the  spherical  molecules  are  held 
together  by  an  attraction  which  prevents  their  adhering  to 
any  foreign  body,  or  perhaps  ceases  only  under  some  peculiar 
electric  conditions. 

7.  The  question  remains,  even  supposing  their  production 
accounted  for  — What  intermediate  states  of  water  may 
exist  between  these  spherical  hollow  molecules  and  pure 
vapor  ? 

Has  the  reader  ever  considered  the  relations  of  commonest 
forms  of  volatile  substance?  The  invisible  particles  which 
cause  the  scent  of  a rose-leaf,  how  minute,  how  multitudinous, 
passing  richly  away  into  the  air  continually  ! The  visible 
cloud  of  frankincense — why  visible?  Is  it  in  consequence  of 
the  greater  quantity,  or  larger  size,  of  the  particles,  and  how 
does  the  heat  act  in  throwing  them  off  in  this  quantity,  or  of 
this  size  ? 

Ask  the  same  questions  respecting  water.  It  dries,  that  is, 
becomes  volatile,  invisibly,  at  (any  ?)  temperature.  Snow 
dries,  as  water  does.  Under  increase  of  heat,  it  volatilizes 
faster,  so  as  to  become  dimly  visible  in  large  mass,  as  a heat- 
haze.  It  reaches  boiling-point,  then  becomes  entirely  visible. 
But  compress  it,  so  that  no  air  shall  get  between  the  watery 
particles — it  is  invisible  again.  At  the  first  issuing  from  the 
steam-pipe  the  steam  is  transparent ; but  opaque,  or  visible, 
as  it  diffuses  itself.  The  water  is  indeed  closer,  because 
cooler,  in  that  diffusion  ; but  more  air  is  between  its  particles. 
Then  this  very  question  of  visibility  is  an  endless  one,  waver- 
ing between  form  of  substance  and  action  of  light.  The 
clearest  (or  least  visible)  stream  becomes  briglitl}^  opaque  by 
more  minute  division  in  its  foam,  and  the  clearest  dew  in 
hoar-frost.  Dust,  unperceived  in  shade,  becomes  constantly 
visible  in  sunbeam  ; and  watery  vapor  in  the  atmosphere, 
which  is  itself  opaque,  when  there  is  promise  of  fine  weather. 


C(ELI  ENARllANT.  167 

becomes  exquisitely  transparent  ; and  (questionably)  blue, 
when  it  is  going  to  rain. 

8.  Questionably  blue  ; for  besides  knowing  very  little  about 
water,  we  know  what,  except  by  courtesy,  must,  I think,  be 
called  Nothing — about  air.  Is  it  the  watery  vapor,  or  the 
air  itself,  which  is  blue?  Are  neither  blue,  but  only  white, 
producing  blue  when  seen  over  dark  sj^aces?  If  either  blue, 
or  white,  why,  when  crimson  is  their  commanded  dress,  are 
the  most  distant  clouds  crimsonest  ? Clouds  close  to  us  may 
be  blue,  but  far  off,  golden — a strange  result,  if  the  air  is  blue, 
ilnd  again,  if  blue,  why  are  rays  that  come  through  large 
spaces  of  it  red ; and  that  Alp,  or  anything  else  that  catches 
far-away  light,  why  colored  red  at  dawn  and  sunset?  No 
one  knows,  I believe.  It  is  true  that  many  substances,  as 
opal,  are  blue,  or  green,  by  reflected  light,  yellow  by  trans- 
mitted ; but  air,  if  blue  at  all,  is  blue  always  by  transmitted 
light.  I hear  of  a wonderful  solution  of  nettles,  or  other 
unlovely  herb,  which  is  green  when  shallow — red  when  deep. 
Perhaps  some  day,  as  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  by 
help  of  an  apple,  their  light  by  help  of  a nettle,  may  be  ex- 
plained to  mankind. 

9.  But  further  : these  questions  of  volatility,  and  visibility, 
and  hue,  are  all  complicated  with  those  of  shape.  How  is  a 
cloud  outlined?  Granted  whatever  you  choose  to  ask  con- 
cerning its  material,  or  its  aspect,  its  loftiness,  and  luminous- 
ness— how  of  its  limitation?  > What  hews  it  into  a heap,  or 
spins  it  into  a web  ? Cold  is  usually  shapeless,  I suppose,  ex- 
tending over  large  spaces  equally,  or  with  gradual  diminution. 
You  cannot  have,  in  the  open  air,  angles,  and  wedges,  and 
coils,  and  cliffs  of  cold.  Yet  the  vapor  stops  suddenly,  sharp 
and  steep  as  a rock,  or  thrusts  itself  across  the  gates  of  heaven 
in  likeness  of  a brazen  bar ; or  braids  itself  in  and  out,  and 
across  and  across,  like  a tissue  of  tapestry  ; or  falls  into  ripples, 
like  sand  ; or  into  waving  shreds  and  tongues,  as  fire.  On 
what  anvils  and  wheels  is  the  vapor  pointed,  twisted,  ham- 
mered, whirled,  as  the  potter’s  clay  ? By  what  hands  is  the 
incense  of  the  sea  built  up  into  domes  of  marble  ? 

And,  lastly,  all  these  questions  respecting  substance,  and 


168 


C(ELI  ENARRANT. 


aspect,  and  shape,  and  line,  and  division,  are  involved  with 
others  as  inscrutable,  concerning  action.  The  curves  in  which 
clouds  move  are  unknown — nay,  the  very  method  of  their 
motion,  or  apparent  motion,  how  far  it  is  by  change  of  place, 
how  far  by  appearance  in  one  place  and  vanishing  from 
another.  And  these  questions  about  movement  lead  partly 
far  away  into  high  mathematics,  where  I cannot  follow  them, 
and  partly  into  theories  concerning  electricity  and  infinite 
space,  where  I suppose  at  present  no  one  can  follow  them. 

What,  then,  is  the  use  of  asking  the  questions  ? 

For  my  own  part,  I enjoy  the  mystery,  and  perhaps  the 
reader  may.  I think  he  ought.  He  should  not  be  less  grate- 
ful for  summer  rain,  or  see  less  beauty  in  the  clouds  of  morn- 
ing, because  they  come  to  prove  him  with  hard  questions ; to 
which,  perhaps,  if  we  look  close  at  the  heavenly  scroll,*  we 
may  find  also  a syllable  or  two  of  answer  illuminated  here  and 
there. 


* There  is  a beautiful  passage  in  Sartor  Resartus  concerning  this  old 
Hebrew  scroll,  in  its  deeper  meanings,  and  the  child’s  watching  it, 
though  long  illegible  for  him,  yet  “with  an  eye  to  the  gilding.”  It 
signifies  in  a word  or  two  nearly  all  that  is  to  be  said  about  clouds. — -(Not 
quite,  J.  R.,  1884.) 


NOTES 


ON  SOME  OF 

THE  PKIHOIPAL  PICTIJEES 

EXHIBITED  IN  THE  ROOMS  OF  THE 

ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


1875. 


■>•  V - • • ••■'  ■'•  •■•:; 

^ V ■*  ' ' • 


'5i<\  t . -itti*  .:/  ?rtT;  irfxVr^.n 

^ r'  1 r 


■I 


j?' 


i 


PEEFAOE. 


It  is  now  just  twenty  years  since  I wrode  the  first  number 
of  these  notes  ; and  fifteen  since  they  were  discontinued.  I 
have  no  intention  of  renewing  the  series,  unless  occasionally, 
should  accident  detain  me  in  London  during  the  spring.  But 
this  year,  for  many  reasons,  it  seemed  to  me  imperatively 
proper  to  say  as  much  as  is  here  said. 

And  that  the  temper  of  the  saying  may  not,  so  far  as  I can 
prevent  it,  be  mistaken,  I will  venture  to  ask  my  reader  to 
hear,  and  trust  that  he  will  believe,  thus  much  concerning 
myself.  Among  various  minor,  but  collectively  sufficient, 
reasons  for  the  cessation  of  these  notes,  one  of  the  chief  was 
the  exclamation  of  a young  artist,  moving  in  good  society — 

authentically,  I doubt  not,  reported  to  me — ‘‘D the 

fellow,  why  doesn’t  he  back  his  friends  ? ” The  general 
want  in  the  English  mind  of  any  abstract  conception  of 
justice,  and  the  substitution  for  it  of  the  idea  of  fidelity  to  a 
part}",  as  the  first  virtue  of  public  action,  had  never  struck 
me  so  vividly  before  ; and  thenceforward  it  seemed  to  me  use- 
less, so  far  as  artists  were  concerned,  to  continue  criticism 
which  they  would  esteem  dishonorable,  unless  it  w'as  false. 

But  Fortune  has  so  sternly  reversed  her  wheel  during  these 
recent  years,  that  I am  more  likely  now  to  be  accused  of  mal- 
ice than  of  equity  ; and  I am  therefore  at  the  pains  to  beg 
the  honest  reader  to  believe  that,  having  perhaps  as  much 
pleasure  as  other  people,  both  in  backing  my  friends  and 
fronting  my  enemies,  I have  never  used,  and  shall  never  use, 
my  power  of  criticism  to  such  end  ; but  that  I write  now,  and 
have  always  written,  so  far  as  I am  able,  v/hat  may  show  that 


172 


PREFACE. 


there  is  a fixed  criterion  of  separation  between  right  art  and 
wrong ; that  no  opinion,  no  time,  and  no  circumstances  can 
ever  in  one  jot  change  this  relation  of  their  Good  and  Evil ; 
and  that  it  would  be  pleasant  for  the  British  public  to  recog- 
nize the  one,  and  wise  in  them  to  eschew  the  other. 


Herne  Hill,  May  23,  1875. 


NOTES,  ETC. 


Before  looking  at  any  single  picture,  let  us  understand  the 
scope  and  character  of  the  Exhibition  as  a whole.  The  Royal 
Academy  of  England,  in  its  annual  publication,  is  now  noth- 
ing more  than  a large  colored  Illustrated  Times  folded  in 
saloons  : — the  splendidest  May  Number  of  the  Graphic,  shall 
we  call  it  ? That  is  to  say,  it  is  a certain  quantity  of  pleasant, 
but  imperfect,  “illustration  ” of  passing  events,  mixed  with  as 
much  gossip  of  the  past,  and  tattle  of  the  future,  as  may  be 
probably  agreeable  to  a populace  supremely  ignorant  of  the 
one,  and  reckless  of  the  other. 

Sa^Dremely  ignorant,  I say  — ignorant,  that  is,  on  the  lofty 
ground  of  their  supremacy  in  useless  knowledge. 

For  instance  : the  actual  facts  whicli  Shakespeare  knew 
about*  Rome  were,  in  number  and  accuracy,  compared  to  those 
which  M.  Alma-Tadema  knows,  as  the  pictures  of  a child’s 
first  story-book,  compared  to  Smith’s  “ Dictionary  of  Antiqui- 
ties.” 

But  when  Shakespeare  wrote, 

“ The  noble  sister  of  Piiblicola, 

The  Moon  of  Rome  ; chaste  as  the  icicle 
Tliat’s  curdled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 

And  hangs  on  Diau’s  temple,” 

he  knew  Rome  herself,  to  the  heart  ; and  M.  Tadema,  after 
reading  his  Smith’s  “ Dictionary  ” through  from  A to  Z,  know^s 
nothing  of  her  but  her  shadow  ; and  that  cast  at  sunset. 

Yet  observe,  in  saying  that  Academy  work  is  now  nothing- 
more,  virtually,  than  cheap  colored  woodcut,  I do  not  mean 
to  depreciate  the  talent  employed  in  it.  Our  public  press  is 


174  NOTES  ON  THE  PUINGIPAL  PICTURES 


supported  by  an  ingenuity  and  skill  in  rapid  art  unrivalled 
at  any  period  of  history  ; nor  have  I ever  been  so  humbled, 
or  astonished,  by  the  mightiest  work  of  Tintoret,  Turner,  or 
Velasquez,  as  I was  one  afternoon  last  year,  in  watching,  in 
the  Dudley  gallery,  two  ordinary  workmen  for  a daily  news- 
paper, finishing  their  drawings  on  the  blocks  by  gaslight, 
against  time. 

Nay,  not  in  skill  only,  but  in  pretty  sentiment,  our  press 
illustration,  in  its  higher  ranks,  far  surpasses — or  indeed,  in 
that  department  finds  no  rivalship  in— the  schools  of  classical 
art ; and  it  happens  curiously  that  the  only  drawing  of  which 
the  memory  remains  with  me  as  a possession,  out  of  the  old 
water-color  exhibition  of  this  year  — Mrs.  Allingham’s 
“ Young  Customers  ” — should  be,  not  only  by  an  accomplished 
designer  of  woodcut,  but  itself  the  illustration  of  a popular 
story.  The  drawing,  with  whatever  temporary  purpose  exe- 
cuted, is  forever  lovely ; a thing  which  I believe  Gains- 
borough would  have  given  one  of  his  own  pictures  for — old- 
fashioned  as  red-tipped  daisies  are — and  more  precious  than 
rubies. 

And  I am  conscious  of,  and  deeply  regret,  the  inevitable 
warp  wdiich  my  own  lately  exclusive  training  under  the  elder 
schools  gives  to  my  estimate  of  this  current  art  of  th6  day  ; 
and  submissively  bear  the  blame  due  to  my  sullen  refusal  of 
what  good  is  oiYered  me  in  the  railroad  station,  because  I can- 
not find  in  it  what  I found  in  the  Ducal  Palace.  And  I may 
be  permitted  to  say  this  much,  in  the  outset,  in  apology  for 
myself,  that  I determined  on  writing  this  number  of  Academy 
notes,  simply  because  I was  so  much  delighted  with  Mr. 
Leslie’s  School — Mr.  Leighton’s  little  Fatima,  Mr.  Hook’s 
Hearts  of  Oak,  and  Mr.  Couldery’s  kittens — that  I thought  I 
should  be  able  to  write  an  entirely  good-humored,  and  there- 
fore, in  all  likelihood,  practically  useful,  sketch  of  the  socially 
pleasant  qualities  of  modern  English  painting,  which  were 
not  enough  acknowledged  in  my  former  essays. 

As  I set  myself  to  the  work,  and  examined  more  important 
pictures,  my  humor  changed,  though  much  against  my  will. 
Not  more  reluctantly  the  son  of  Beor  found  his  utterances 


IN  TUE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


175 


becorae  benedictory,  than  I mine — the  reverse.  But  the  need 
of  speaking,  if  not  the  service  (for  too  often  we  can  help 
least  where  need  is  most),  is  assuredly  greater  than  if  I could 
have  spoken  smooth  things  without  ruffling  anywhere  the 
calm  of  praise. 

Popular  or  classic — temporary  or  eternal — all  good  art  is 
more  or  less  didactic.  My  artist-adversaries  rage  at  me  for 
saying  so  ; but  the  gayest  of  them  cannot  help  being  momen- 
tarily grave  ; nor  the  emptiest-headed  occasionally  instruc- 
tive ; and  whatever  work  any  of  them  do,  that  is  indeed 
honorable  to  themselves,  is  also  intellectually  helpful,  no  less 
than  entertaining,  to  others.  i\.nd  it  will  be  the  surest  way 
of  estimating  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  art  of  this  year,  if  we 
proceed  to  examine  it  in  the  several  provinces  which  its 
didactic  functions  occupy  ; and  collect  the  sum  of  its  teach- 
ing on  the  subjects — which  will,  I think,  sufficiently  embrace 
its  efforts  in  every  kind — of  Theology,  History,  Biography, 
Natural  History,  Landscape,  and  as  the  end  of  all,  Policy. 


THEOLOGY. 

o84.  Dedicated  to  all  the  Churches.  (G.  F.  Watts,  E.A.) 

Here,  at  least,  is  one  picture  meant  to  teach ; nor  failing  of 
its  purpose,  if  we  read  it  rightly.  Very  beautiful,  it  might 
have  been  ; and  is,  in  no  mean  measure ; but  as  years  pass 
by,  the  artist  concedes  to  himself,  more  and  more,  the  privi- 
lege which  none  but  the  feeble  should  seek,  of  substituting 
the  sublimity  of  mystery  for  that  of  absolute  majesty  of 
form.  The  relation  between  this  gray  and  soft  cloud  of  vis- 
ionary power,  and  the  perfectly  substantial,  bright,  and  near 
presence  of  the  saints,  angels,  or  Deities  of  early  Christian 
art,  involves  questions  of  too  subtle  interest  to  be  followed 
here  ; but  in  the  essential  force  of  it,  belongs  to  the  inevi- 
table expression,  in  each  period,  of  the  character  of  its  own 
faith.  The  Christ  of  the  13th  century  was  vividly  present  to 
its  thoughts,  and  dominant  over  its  acts,  as  a God  manifest  in 


170  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


the  flesh,  well  pleased  in  the  people  to  whom  He  came  ; while 
ours  is  either  forgotten  ; or  seen,  by  those  who  yet  trust  in 
Him,  only  as  a mourning  and  departing  Ghost. 

129.  Ezekiel’s  Vision.  (P.  F.  Poole,  RA.) 

Though  this  design  cannot  for  a moment  be  compared 
with  the  one  just  noticed,  in  depth  of  feeling,  there  is  yet,  as 
there  has  been  always  in  Mr.  Poole’s  work,  some  acknowl- 
edgment of  a supernatural  influence  in  physical  phenomena, 
which  gives  a nobler  character  to  his  storm-painting  than  can 
belong  to  any  merely  literal  study  of  the  elements.  But  the 
piece  is  chiefly  interesting  for  its  parallelism  with  that  “dedi- 
cated to  all  the  churches,”  in  effacing  the  fearless  realities  of 
the  elder  creed  among  the  confused  speculations  of  our 
modern  one.  The  beasts  in  Raphael’s  vision  of  Ezekiel  are 
as  solid  as  the  cattle  in  Smithfi^ld  ; while  here,  if  traceable  at 
all  in  the  drift  of  the  storm-cloud  (which,  it  is  implied,  was 
all  that  the  prophet  really  saw),  their  animal  character  can 
only  be  accepted  in  polite  compliance  with  the  prophetic  im- 
pression, as  the  weasel  by  Polonius.  And  my  most  Polonian 
courtesy  fails  in  deciphering  the  second  of  the  four — not- 
li  vin  g — creature  s. 

218.  Kachel  and  her  Flock.  (F.  Goodall,  R.A.) 

This  is  one  of  the  pictures  which,  with  such  others  as  Hol- 
man Hunt’s  “ Scapegoat,”  Millais’  “ Dove  Returning  to  the 
Ark,”  etc.,  the  public  owe  primarily  to  the  leading  genius  of 
Dante  Rossetti,  the  founder,  and  for  some  years  the  vital 
force,  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  school.  He  was  the  first  assertor 
in  painting,  as  I believe  I was  myself  in  art-literature  (Gold- 
smith and  Moliere  having  given  the  first  general  statements 
of  it),  of  the  great  distinctive  principle  of  that  school,  that 
things  should  be  painted  as  they  probably  did  look  and 
happen,  and  not  as,  by  rules  of  art  developed  under  Raphael, 
Correggio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  they  might  be  supposed 
gracefully,  deliciously,  or  sublimely  to  have  happened. 

The  adoption  of  this  principle  by  good  and  great  men,  pro- 
duces the  grandest  art  possible  in  the  world ; the  adoption  of 


m THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


177 


it  by  vile  and  foolish  men — very  vile  and  foolish  art ; yet  not 
so  entirely  nugatory  as  imitations  of  Raphael  or  Correggio 
would  be  by  persons  of  the  same  calibre  : an  intermediate  and 
large  class  of  pictures  have  been  produced  by  painters  of  aver- 
age powers  ; mostly  of  considerable  value,  but  which  fail 
again  into  two  classes,  according  to  the  belief  of  the  artists  in 
the  truth,  and  understanding  of  the  dignity  of  the  subjects 
they  endeavor  to  illustrate,  or  their  opposite  degree  of  incre- 
dulity and  materialistic  vulgarism  of  interpretation. 

The  picture  before  us  belongs  to  the  higher  class,  but  is  not 
a fine  example  of  it.  We  cannot  tell  from  it  whether  Mr. 
Goodall  believes  Rachel  to  have  wept  over  Ramah  from  her 
throne  in  heaven  ; but  at  least  we  gather  from  it  some  sugges- 
tion of  what  she  must  have  looked  like,  when  she  was  no 
more  than  a Syrian  shepherdess. 

That  she  was  a very  beautiful  shepherdess,  so  that  her  lover 
thought  years  of  waiting  but  as  days,  for  the  love  he  bore  to 
her,  Mr.  Goodall  has  scarcely  succeeded  in  representing.  And 
on  the  whole  he  would  have  measured  his  powers  more  rea- 
sonabl}’’  in  contenting  himself  with  painting  a Yorkshire 
shepherdess  instead  of  a Syrian  one,'^  Like  everybody  except 
myself — he  has  been  in  the  East.  If  that  is  the  appearance  of 
the  new  moon  in  the  East,  I am  well  enough  content  to  guide, 
and  gild,  the  lunacies  of  my  declining  years  by  the  light  of 
the  old  western  one. 

518.  Julian  the  Apostate,  presiding,  etc.  (E.  Armytage,  R.A.) 

This,  I presume,  is  a modern  enlightened  improvement  on 
the  Disputa  del  Sacramento.  The  English  Church  is  to  be 
congratulated  on  the  education  she  gives  her  artists.  Fum- 
bling with  sham  Gothic  penny  tracts,  and  twopenny  Script- 
ure prints,  among  the  embers  of  reverence  and  sacred  life 
that  yet  linger  on  from  the  soul  of  ancient  days,  she  holds  her 
own,  in  outward  appearance  at  least,  among  our  simple  coun» 


* Compare,  however,  at  once,  582,  which  is,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
honorably  complete  and  scholastic  life-size  figure  in  the  rooms,  with 
well-cast,  and  unaffectedly  well-painted,  drapery. 

12 


178  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


try  villages  ; and,  in  our  more  ignorant  manufacturing  cen- 
tres, contentedly  enamels  the  service  of  Mammon  with  the 
praise  of  God.  But  in  the  capital  of  England — here,  on  her 
Vatican  hill  above  St.  Peter’s  church,  and  beside  St.  Paul’s — 
this  is  the  testimony  she  wins  from  art,  as  compared  with  the 
councils  of  Fathers,  and  concourses  of  Saints,  which  poor  dark- 
minded  Italy  once  loved  to  paint.  Mr.  Armytage,  however,  has 
not  completed  his  satire  with  subtlety  ; he  knows  the  higher 
virtue  of  sectarians  as  little  as  Gibbon  knew  those  of  Julian,'^ 
whose  sincere  apostasy  was  not  the  act  of  a soul  which  could 

enjoy  the  agreeable  spectacle”  of  vile  dispute  among  any 
men — least  of  all,  among  those  whom  he  had  once  believed 
messengers  of  Christ. 

1293 — 1295.  Terra-cottas,  representing,  etc.  (S.  Tin  worth.) 

Full  of  fire  and  zealous  faculty,  breaking  its  way  through 
all  conventionalism  to  such  truth  as  it  can  conceive  ; able  also 
to  conceive  far  more  than  can  be  rightly  expressed  on  this 
scale.  And,  after  all  the  labors  of  past  art  on  the  Life  of 
Christ,  here  is  an  English  workman  fastening,  with  more  de- 
cision than  I recollect  in  any  of  them,  on  the  gist  of  the  sin  of 
the  Jews,  and  their  rulers,  in  the  choice  of  Barabbas,  and 
making  the  physical  fact  of  contrast  between  the  man  released, 
and  the  man  condemned,  clearly  visible.  We  must  receive  it, 
I suppose,  as  a flash  of  really  prophetic  intelligence  on  the 
question  of  Universal  Suffrage. 

These  bas-reliefs  are  the  most  earnest  work  in  the  Academy, 
next  to  Mr.  Boehm’s  study  of  Carlyle.  But  how  it  happens 
that  after  millions  of  money  have  been  spent  in  the  machinery 
of  art  education  at  Kensington,  an  ornamental  designer  of  so 
high  faculty  as  this  one,  should  never  in  his  life  have  found  a 
human  being  able  to  explain  to  him  the  first  principles  of  re- 
lief, or  show  him  the  difference  between  decorative  foliage- 
sculpture,  and  Norman  hatchet-work — I must  leave  the  Ken- 
sington authorities  to  explain  ; for  it  passes  all  my  capacities 
of  conjecture,  and  all  my  hitherto  experience  of  the  costly 


* See  note  on  page  OOO* 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


179 


and  colossal  public  institution  of — Nothing—out  of  which,  to 
wise  men,  as  here,  can  come  nothing  ; but  to  fools  everywhere^ 
— worse  than  nothing.  Kensington  has  flattened  its  thousands 
of  weak  students  into  machine  pattern-papers  : here,  it  had 
a true  man  to  deal  with  ; and  for  all  he  has  learned  of  his 
business,  he  might  as  well  have  lived  in  South  Australia, 


HISTORY. 

26.  The  Sculpture  Gallery.  (L.  Alma-Tadema.) 

This,  I suppose,  we  must  assume  to  be  the  principal  histori- 
cal piece  of  the  year ; a work  showing  artistic  skill  and  classic 
learning,  both  in  high  degree.  But  both  parallel  in  their 
method  of  selection.  Tlie  artistic  skill  has  succeeded  with  all 
its  objects  in  the  degree  of  their  unimportance.  The  piece 
of  silver  plate  is  painted  best ; the  griffin  bas-relief  it  stands  on, 
second  best ; the  statue  of  the  empress  worse  than  the  griffins, 
and  the  living  personages  worse  than  the  statue.  I do  not 
know  what  featliers  the  fan  with  the  frightful  mask  in  the 
handle,  held  by  the  nearest  lady,  is  supposed  to  be  made  of ; 
to  a simple  spectator  they  look  like  peacock’s,  without  the 
eyes.  And,  indeed,  the  feathers,  under  which  the  motto  “ I 
serve”  of  French  art  seems  to  be  written  in  these  days,  are,  I 
think,  very  literally,  all  feather  and  no  eyes — the  Raven’s 
feather  to  wit,  of  Sycorax.  The  selection  of  the  subject  is 
similarly — one  might  say,  filamentous — of  the  extremity,  in- 
stead of  the  centre.  The  old  French  Republicans,  reading  of 
Rome,  chose  such  events  to  illustrate  her  histoiy,  as  the  battle 
of  Romulus  with  the  Sabines,  the  vow  of  the  Horatii,  or  the 
self-martyrdom  of  Lucretia.  The  modern  Republican  sees  in 
the  Rome  he  studies  so  profoundly,  only  a central  establish- 
ment for  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  imitation-Greek  articles 
of  virth. 

The  execution  is  dextrous,  but  more  with  mechanical  steadh 
ness  of  practice  than  innate  fineness  of  nerve.  It  is  impos- 
sible, liowever,  to  say  how  much  the  personal  nervous  faculty 


180  mTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


of  an  artist  of  this  calibre  is  paralyzed  by  his  education  in 
schools  which  I could  not  characterize  in  my  Oxford  inaugural 
lectures  otherwise  than  as  the  “ schools  of  clay,”  in  which  he  is 
never  shown  what  Venetians  or  Florentines  meant  by  paint- 
ing,” and  allowed  to  draw  his  flesh  steadily  and  systematically 
with  shadows  of  charcoal,  and  lights  of  cream -soap,  without 
ever  considering  whether  there  would  be  any  reflections  in  the 
one,  or  any  flush  of  life  in  the  other.  The  head  on  the  ex- 
treme left  is  exceptionally  good  ; but  who  ever  saw  a woman’s 
neck  and  hand  blue-black  under  reflection  from  white  drapery, 
as  they  are  in  the  nearer  figure  ? It  is  well  worth  while  to  go 
straight  from  this  picture  to  the  two  small  studies  by  Mr. 
Albert  Moore,  356  and  357,  which  are  consummately  artistic 
and  scientific  work  : examine  them  closely,  and  with  patience  ; 
the  sofa  and  basket  especially,  in  357,  with  a lens  of  moderate 
power ; and,  by  way  of  a lesson  in  composition,  hide  in  this 
picture  the  little  hone3"Suckle  ornament  above  the  head,  and 
the  riband  hanging  over  the  basket,  and  see  what  becomes  of 
everything  ! Or  try  the  effect  of  concealing  the  yellow  flower 
in  the  hair,  in  the  “flower  walk.”  And  for  comparison  with 
the  elementary  method  of  M.  Tadema,  look  at  the  blue  reflec- 
tion on  the  chin  in  this  figure  ; at  the  reflection  of  the  warm 
brick  wall  on  its  right  arm  ; and  at  the  general  modes  of  un- 
affected relief  by  which  the  extended  left  arm  in  “ Pansies  ” de- 
taches itself  from  the  background.  And  you  ought  after- 
ward, if  you  have  eye  for  color,  never  more  to  mistake  a tinted 
drawing  for  a painting. 

233.  The  Festival.  (E.  J.  Poynter,  A.) 

I wonder  how  long  Mr.  Poynter  thinks  a young  lady  could 
stand  barefoot  on  a round-runged  ladder  ; or  that  a sensible 
Greek  girl  would  take  her  sandals  off  to  try,  on  an  occasion 
when  she  had  festive  arrangements  to  make  with  care.  The 
ladders  themselves,  here  and  in  No.  236  (The  Golden  Age), 
appear  to  me  not  so  classical,  or  so  rude,  in  type,  as  might  have 
been  expected ; but  to  savor  somewhat  of  the  expeditious  gas- 
lighting. Of  course  Mr.  Poynter’s  object  in  No.  236  is  to 
show  us,  like  Michael  Angelo,  the  adaptability  of  limbs  to 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


181 


awkward  positions.  But  he  can  only,  by  this  anatomical  sci- 
ence, interest  his  surgical  spectators  ; while  the  Golden  Age, 
in  this  pinchbeck  one,  interests  nobody.  Not  even  the  painter 
— for  had  he  looked  at  the  best  authorities  for  account  of  it, 
he  would  have  found  that  its  people  lived  chiefly  on  corn  and 
strawberries,  both  growing  wild ; and  doubtless  the  loaded 
fruit-branches  drooped  to  their  reach.  Both  these  pictures 
are  merely  studies  of  decorative  composition,  and  have  far  too 
much  pains  taken  with  them  for  their  purpose.  Decorative 
work,  however  complete,  should  be  easy. 

401.  Ready  ! (P.  Cockerell.) 

I suppose  this  is  meant  for  portrait,  not  history.  At  all 
events,  the  painter  has  been  misled  in  his  endeavor,  if  he 
made  any,  to  render  Swiss  character,  by  Schiller’s  absurd 
lines.  Schiller,  of  all  men  high  in  poetic  fame  whose  works 
are  in  anywise  known  to  me,  has  the  feeblest  hold  of  facts 
and  the  dullest  imagination.  “Still  as  a lamb  ! ” Sucking,  I 
suppose  ? They  are  so  very  quiet  in  that  special  occupation  ; 
and  never  think  of  such  a thing  as  jumping,  when  they  have 
had  enough,  of  course  ? And  I should  like  to  hear  a Swiss 
(or  English)  boy,  with  any  stuff  in  him,  liken  himself  to  a 
lamb  ! If  there  were  any  real  event  from  which  the  legend 
sprang,  the  boy’s  saying  would  have  been  not  in  the  smallest 
degree  pathetic  : “ Never  fear  me,  father ; I’ll  stand  like 
grandmother’s  donkey  when  she  wants  him  to  go” — or 
something  to  such  effect. 

482.  The  Babylonian  Marriage  Market.  (E.  Long.) 

A painting  of  great  merit,  and  well  deserving  purchase  by 
the  Anthropological  Society.  For  the  varieties  of  character 
in  the  heads  are  rendered  with  extreme  subtlety,  while,  as  a 
mere  piece  of  painting,  the  work  is  remarkable,  in  the  modern 
school,  for  its  absence  of  affectation  ; there  is  no  insolently 
indulged  indolence,  nor  vulgarly  asserted  dexterity — the  paint- 
ing is  good  throughout,  and  unobtrusively  powerful. 

It  becomes  a question  of  extreme  interest  with  me,  as  I ex- 
amine this  remarkable  picture,  how  far  the  intensely  subtle 


182  N0TE8  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


observation  of  physical  character  and  expression  whicli  ren- 
dered the  painting  of  it  possible,  necessitates  the  isolation  of 
the  artist’s  thoaghts  from  subjects  of  intellectual  interest,  or 
moral  beauty.  Certainly,  the  best  expressioiial  works  of  the 
higher  schools  present  nothing  analogous  to  the  anatomical 
precision  with  which  the  painter  has  here  gradated  the 
feature  and  expression  of  the  twelve  waiting  girls,  from  great 
physical  beauty  to  absolute  ugliness  ; and  from  the  serene 
insolence  and  power  of  accomplished  fleshly  womanhood,  to 
the  restless  audacity,  and  crushed  resignation,  of  its  despised 
states  of  personal  inferiority,  unconsoled  by  moral  strength, 
or  family  afi;ection.  As  a piece  of  anthropology,  it  is  the  nat- 
ural and  very  wonderful  product  of  a century  occupied  in 
carnal  and  mechanical  science.  In  the  total  paralysis  of  con- 
ception— without  attempt  to  disguise  the  palsy — as  to  the 
existence  of  any  higher  element  in  a 'woman’s  mind  than 
vanity  and  spite,  or  in  a man’s  than  avarice  and  animal 
passion,  it  is  also  a specific  piece  of  the  natural  history  of 
our  own  century ; but  only  a partial  one,  either  of  it,  or  of 
the  Assyrian,  who  was  once  as  the  cedars  in  the  garden  of 
God.” 

The  painter  has  in  the  first  instance  misread  his  story,  or 
been  misled  by  his  translation.  This  custom,  called  wise  by 
Herodotus,  is  so  called  only  as  practised  in  country  districts 
W’itli  respect  to  the  fortuneless  girls  of  the  lower  laboring 
population  ; daughters  of  an  Assyrian  noble,  however  plain- 
featured,  would  certainly  not  be  exposed  in  the  market  to 
receive  downy  from  the  dispute  for  their  fairer  sisters.^  But 
there  is  matter  of  deeper  interest  in  the  custom,  as  it  is  com- 
pared to  our  modern  life.  However  little  the  English  edu- 
cated classes  now  read  their  Bibles,  they  cannot  but,  in  the 
present  state  of  literary  science,  be  aw^are  that  there  is  a book. 


* The  passage  in  Strabo  wliicli  gives  some  countenance  to  the  idea  of 
universality  in  tlie  practice,  gives  a somewliat  different  color  to  it  by 
the  statement  that  over  each  of  the  three  great  Assyrian  provinces  a 
“temperately  wise”  person  was  set  to  conduct  the  ordinances  of 
marriage. 


JiY  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


183 


once  asserted  to  have  been  written  by  St.  John,  in  which  a 
spiritual  Babylon  is  described  as  the  mother  of  harlots  and 
abominations  of  the  earth,  and  her  ruin  represented  as  lament- 
able, especially  to  the  merchants,  who  trafficked  with  her  in 
many  beautiful  and  desirable  articles,  but  above  all  in  souls 
of  men.” 

Also,  the  educated  reader  cannot  but  be  aware  that  the  ani- 
mosity of  Christian  sects — which  we  have  seen  the  subject  of 
anotlier  important  national-historical  picture  in  this  Academy 
— has  for  the  last  three  hundred  years  wasted  much  of  their 
energy  in  endeavors  to  find  Scriptural  reason  for  calling  each 
other  Babylonians,  and  whatever  else  that  term  may  be  under- 
stood to  imply. 

There  is,  however,  no  authority  to  be  found  in  honestly 
read  Scripture  for  these  well-meaning,  but  ignorant,  incivili- 
ties. Bead  in  their  entirety,  the  books  of  the  Bible  represent 
to  us  a literal  and  material  deliverance  of  a visibly  separated 
people,  from  a literal  bondage  ; their  establishment  in  a liter- 
ally fruitful  and  peaceful  laud,  and  their  being  led  away  out 
of  that  land,  in  consequence  of  their  refusal  to  obey  the  laws 
of  its  Lord,  into  a literal  captivity  in  a small,  material  Baby- 
lon. The  same  Scriptures  represent  to  us  a spiritual  deliver- 
ance of  an  invisibly  separated  people,  from  spiritual  bondage  ; 
their  establishment  in  the  spiritual  land  of  Christian  joy  and 
peace  ; and  their  being  led  away  out  of  this  land  into  a spirit- 
ual captivity  in  a great  spiritual  Babylon,  the  mother  of 
abominations,  and  in  all  active  transactions  especially  delight- 
ful to  “ merchants  ” — persons  engaged,  that  is  to  say,  in  ob- 
taining profits  by  exchange  instead  of  labor. 

And  whatever  was  literally  done,  whether  apparently  wise 
or  not,  in  the  minor  fleshly  Babylon,  will,  therefore,  be  found 
spiritually  fulfilled  in  the  major  ghostly  one  ; and,  for  in- 
stance, as  the  most  beautiful  and  marvellous  maidens  were 
announced  for  literal  sale  b}^  auction  in  Assyria,  are  not  also 
the  souls  of  our  most  beautiful  and  marvellous  maidens  an- 
nounced annually  for  sale  by  auction  in  Paris  and  London,  in 
a spiritual  manner,  for  the  spiritual  advantages  of  position  in 
society. 


184 


XyOTEti  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


\ X ■ 

BIOGRAPHY. 

XJndeb  this  head  I include  Drama,  Domestic  Incident,  and 
Portrait  : this  last  being,  if  good,  the  sum  of  what  drama  and 
domestic  chances  have  been  wrought  by,  and  befallen  to,  the 
person  portrayed. 

Not  to  begin  with  too  high  matters,  and  collapse  subse- 
quently, suppose  we  first  contemplate  the  pretty  little  scene, 

408.  Domestic  Troubles.  (J.  Burr.) 

The  boy  peeping  in  fearfully  at  the  door,  has  evidently, 
under  the  inspiration  of  modern  scientific  zeal,  dissected  the 
bellows  ; and  whether  they  will  ever  help  the  pot  to  boil 
again  is  doubtful  to  grandpapa.  The  figure  of  the  younger 
child,  mute  with  awe  and  anxiety,  yet  not  wholly  guiltless  of 
his  naughty  brother’s  curiosity,  is  very  delightful.  Avenging 
Fate,  at  the  chimney-piece,  is  too  severe. 

I have  marked,  close  by  it,  two  other  pictures,  403,  405, 
which  interested  me  for  reasons  scarcely  worth  printing.  The 
cloister  of  Assisi  has  been  carefully  and  literally  studied,  in 
all  but  what  is  singular  or  beautiful  in  it  ; namely,  the  flat- 
tened dome  over  its  cistern,  and  the  central  mossy  well  above. 
But  there  is  more  conscientious  treatment  of  the  rest  of  the 
building,  and  greater  quietness  of  natural  light  than  in  most 
picture  backgrounds  of  these  days.  Ponte  della  Paglia,  405, 
may  be  useful  to  travellers  in  at  least  clearly,  if  not  quite  ac- 
curately, showing  the  decorative  use  of  the  angle  sculpture  of 
the  drunkenness  of  Noah  on  the  Ducal  Palace ; and  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs  is  better  painted  than  usual. 

242.  A Merrie  Jest.  (H.  S.  Marks,  A.) 

Very  characteristic  of  the  painter’s  special  gift.  The  diffi- 
culty of  so  subtle  a rendering  as  this  of  the  half-checked,  yet 
extreme  mirth,  of  persons  naturally  humorous,  can  only  be 
judged  of  by  considering  how  often  aspects  of  laughter  are 
attempted  in  pictures,  and  how  rarely  we  feel  ourselves  in- 


IN-  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


185 


cliDed  to  join  in  the  merriment.  The  piece  of  accessory  and- 
scape  is  very  unaffected  and  good,  and  the  painting,  through- 
out, here,  as  well  as  in  the  equally  humorous,  and  useless, 
picture  of  bygone  days,  1G6,  of  good  standard  modern  quality. 

107.  The  Barber’s  Prodigy.  (J.  B.  Burgess.) 

A close  and  careful  studj^  of  modern  domestic  drama,  de- 
serving notice,  however,  chiefly  for  its  unaffected  manner  of 
work,  and  moderately  pleasant  incident,  as  opposed  to  over- 
labored  pictures  of  what  is  naerelj^  "^igly,  or  meanly  faultful, 
141,  241 — wastes  of  attention,  skill,  and  time.  “Too  Good 
to  be  True,”  153,  another  clever  bit  of  minor  drama,  is  yet 
scarcely  good  enough  to  be  paused  at  ; “ Private  and  Confi- 
dential,” 375,  deserves  a few  moments  more.  879  (A.  Liiben) 
is  much  surer  and  finer  in  touch  than  anything  English  that 
I can  find  in  this  sort.  The  Diisseldorf  Germans,  and  the 
Neuchatel  Swiss  have  been  doing  splendid  domestic  work 
lately  ; but,  I suppose,  are  too  proud  to  exhibit  here. 

75.  Sophia  Western.  (W.  P.  Frith,  R.  A.) 

The  painter  seems  not  to  have  understood,  nor  are  the  pub- 
lic likely  to  understand,  that  Fielding  means,  in  the  passage 
quoted,  to  say  that  Miss  Western’s  hands  were  white,  soft, 
translucent,  and  at  the  moment,  snow-cold.  In  the  picture 
they  cannot  be  shown  to  be  cold — are  certainly  not  white  ; do 
not  look  soft ; and  scarcely  show  the  light  of  the  fire  on  them, 
much  less  through  them.  But  what  is  the  use  of  painting 
from  Fielding  at  all  ? Of  all  our  classic  authors,  it  is  he  who 
demands  the  reader’s  attention  most  strictly ; and  what  mod- 
ern reader  ever  attends  to  anything  ? 

88.  Loot : 1797.  (A.  C.  Gore.) 

An  entirely  fine  picture  of  its  class,  representing  an  ordi- 
nary fact  of  war  as  it  must  occur,  without  any  forced  senti- 
ment or  vulgar  accent.  Highly  skilful  throughout,  keenly 
seen,  well  painted,  and  deserving  a better  place  than  the  slow 
cart-horses  and  solid  waterfalls  on  the  line  have  left  for  it 


1S6 


NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


89.  War  Time.  (B.  KWiere.) 

Compare  626,  at  once  ; the  first  is  a true  piece  of  feeling-^ 
almost  Wordsworthian  ; the  second,  disgraceful  to  it,  both  in 
the  low  pitch  of  its  vulgar  horror,  and  in  its  loss  of  power,  by 
retreat  to  picturesque  tradition,  instead  of  dealing,  like  the 
other,  wdth  the  facts  of  our  own  day. 

If  Mr.  Riviere  really  feels  as  I think  he  feels,  and  means  to 
do  good,  he  must  not  hope  to  do  anything  with  people  who 
AYOLild  endure  the  sight  of  a subject  such  as  this.  He  may 
judge  what  they  are  worth  by  a sentence  I heard  as  I stood 
before  it.  “ Last  of  the  garrison — ha  ! they’re  all  finished  off, 
you  see — isn’t  that  well  done  ? ” At  all  events,  if  he  means 
to  touch  them,  he  must  paint  the  cooking  of  a French  pet- 
poodle  ; not  the  stabbing  of  a bloodhound. 

214.  The  Crown  of  Love.  (J.  E.  Millais.) 

Much  of  the  painter’s  old  power  remains  in  this  sketch  (it 
cannot  be  called,  a painting)  ; and  it  is  of  course  the  leading- 
one  of  the  year  in  dramatic  sentiment.  This,  then,  it  appears, 
is  the  best  that  English  art  can,  at  the  moment,  say  in  praise 
of  the  virtue,  and  promise  of  the  reward,  of  Love ; this,  the 
subject  of  sentimental  contemplation  likely  to  be  most  pleas- 
ing to  the  present  British  public  ; torture,  namely,  carried  to 
crisis  of  death,  in  the  soul  of  one  creature,  and  flesh  of  an- 
other. The  British  public  are  w’^elcome  to  their  feast ; but,  as 
purchasers,  they  ought  to  be  warned  that,  compared  with  the 
earlier  dual  pictures  of  the  school  (Huguenot,  Claudio  and 
Isabella,  April  love,  and  the  like),  this  composition  balances 
its  excess  of  sentiment  by  defect  of  industry  ; and  that  it  is 
not  a precedent  advantageous  to  them,  in  the  arrangement  of 
pictures  of  lovers,  that  one  should  have  a body  without  a face, 
and  the  other  a face  without  a body. 

47.  Hearts  of  Oak.  (J.  C.  Hook,  R.A.) 

Beautiful,  but  incomplete  ; the  painter  wants  more  heart  of 
oak  himself.  If  he  had  let  all  his  other  canvases  alone,  and 
finished  this,  the  year’s  work  would  have  been  a treasure  for  all 
the  centuries ; while  now,  it  is  only  “ the  Hook  of  the  season.’’ 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


187 


It  looks  right  and  harmonious  in  its  subdued  sunshine.  But 
it  isn’t.  Why  should  mussel-shells  cast  a shadow,  but  boats 
and  hats  none  ? Why  should  toy-carts  and  small  stones  have 
light  and  dark  sides,  and  tall  rocks  none  ? I fancy  all  the 
pictures  this  year  must  have  been  painted  in  the  sunless  east 
wind  ; and  only  a bit  of  sunshine  put  in  here  and  there  out  of  the 
painter’s  head,  where  he  thought  it  would  do  nobody  any  harm. 

112.  A November  Morning,  etc.  (H.  T.  Wells,  RA.) 

Fishermen’s  hearts  being  of  oak,  what  are  huntsmen’s  hearts 
made  of  ? 

They  will  have  to  ascertain,  and  prove,  soon  ; there  being 
question  nowadays,  among  the  lower  orders,  whether  they 
have  got  any,  to  speak  of. 

A pleasant  aristocratic  picture — creditable  to  Mr.  Wells,  and 
the  nobility.  Not  a Vandyck,  neither. 

430.  Sunday  Afternoon.  (E.  Collinson.) 

This  picture,  though  of  no  eminent  power  in  any  respect,  is 
extremely  delightful  to  myself ; and  ought,  I think,  to  be  so 
to  most  unsophisticated  persons,  who  care  for  English  rural 
life  ; representing,  as  it  does,  a pleasant  and  virtuous  phase  of 
such  life,  whether  on  Sunday  or  Saturday  afternoon. 

Why,  by  the  way,  must  we  accept  it  for  Sunday  ? Have 
our  nice  old  women  no  rest  on  any  other  day  ? Do  they  never 
put  on  a clean  muslin  kerchief  on  any  other  day  ? Do  they 
never  read  their  Bible  (of  course,  it  would  be  improper  to  sup- 
pose any  other  book  readable  by  them)  on  any  other  day  ? 
Whatever  day  it  be — here,  at  all  events,  are  peace,  light,  clean- 
liness, and  content. 

Luxury  even,  of  a kind  ; the  air  coming  in  at  that  door  must 
be  delicious  ; and  the  leaves,  outside  of  it,  look  like  a bit  of 
the  kitchen-garden  side  of  Paradise.  They  please  me  all  the 
better  because,  since  scientific  people  were  good  enough  to  tell 
us  that  leaves  were  made  green  by  “ green-leaf,”  I haven’t  seen 
a leaf  painted  green,  by  anybody.  But  this  peep  through  the 
door  is  like  old  times,  when  we  were  neither  plagued  with 
soot,  nor  science. 


188  N0TE8  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


Note,  for  a little  piece  of  technical  study  in  composition, 
that  the  painter  would  not  have  been  able  to  venture  on  so 
pure  color  outside  of  the  door,  had  he  not  painted  the  door 
green  as  well,  only  of  a modified  tint,  and  so  led  the  subdued 
color  forward  into  the  red  interior,  taken  up  again  by  the 
shadows  of  the  plants  in  the  window.  The  management  of 
the  luminous  shadow  throughout  is  singularly  skilful — all  the 
more  so  because  it  attracts  so  little  attention.  This  is  true 
chiaroscuro  ; not  spread  treacle  or  splashed  mud,  speckled  with 
white  spots — as  a Rembrandt  amateur  thinks. 

Mr.  Pettie,  for  instance,  a man  of  real  feeling  and  great 
dramatic  powder,  is  ruining  himself  by  these  shallow  notions  of 
chiaroscuro.  If  he  had  not  been  mimicking  Rembrandt,  as 
well  as  the  “costume  of  the  sixteenth  century,”  in  318,  he 
never  would  have  thought  of  representing  Scott’s  entirely 
heroic  and  tender-hearted  Harry  of  Perth  (223),  merely  by  the 
muscular  back  and  legs  of  him  (the  legs,  by  the  way,  were 
slightly  bandy — if  one  holds  to  accuracy  in  anatomical  re- 
spects) ; nor  vulgarized  the  real  pathos  and  most  subtle  expres- 
sion of  his  Jacobites  (1217)  by  the  slovenly  dark  background, 
corresponding,  virtually,  to  the  slouched  hat  of  a theatrical 
conspirator.  I have  been  examining  the  painting  of  the  chief 
Jacobite’s  face  very  closely.  It  is  nearly  as  good  as  a piece  of 
old  William  Hunt ; but  Hunt  never  loaded  his  paint,  except 
in  sticks,  and  moss,  and  such  like.  Now  there’s  a wrinkle 
quite  essential  to  the  expression,  under  the  Jacobite’s  ej^e,  got 
by  a projecting  ridge  of  paint,  instead  of  a proper  dark  line. 
Rembrandt’s  bad  bricklayer’s  work,  with  all  the  mortar  stick- 
ing out  at  the  edges,  may  be  pardonable  in  a Dutchman  sure 
of  his  colors  ; but  it  is  alwaj^s  licentious  ; and  in  these  days, 
when  the  first  object  of  manufacture  is  to  produce  articles  that 
won’t  last,  if  the  mortar  cracks,  where  are  we  ? 

To  return  to  the  question  of  chiaroscuro.  The  present 
Academicians — most  of  whom  I have  had  anxious  talk  of, 
with  their  fathers  or  friends,  when  they  were  promising  boys 
— have  since  been,  with  the  best  part  of  their  minds,  amusing 
themselves  in  London  drawing-rooms,  or  Eastern  deserts,  in- 
stead of  learning  their  business  ; with  the  necessary  result 


m THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


189 


that  they  have,  as  a body,  qualified  themselves  rather  to  be 
Masters  of  Ceremonies  than  of  Studies  ; and  guides  rather  of 
Caravans  than  Schools  ; and  have  not  got  an  inkling  of  any 
principle  of  their  art  to  bless  themselves — or  other  people, 
witl).  So  that  they  have  not  only  filled  their  large  railroad 
station  and  stalls  (attached  refreshment-room  completing  the 
nature  of  the  thing)  with  a mass  of  heterogeneous  pictures, 
of  which  at  least  two-thirds  are  beneath  the  level  of  accept- 
ance in  any  well-established  dealer’s  shop  ; * but  they  have 
encouraged,  by  favor  of  position,  quite  the  worst  abuses  of 
the  cheap  art  of  the  day ; of  w^hich  these  tricks  of  rubbing 
half  the  canvas  over  with  black  or  brown,  that  the  rest  may 
come  out  handsomer,  or  that  the  spectator  may  be  properl}^, 
but  at  the  same  time  economically,  prepared  for  its  melan- 
choly or  sublime  tenor,  are  among  the  least  creditable  either 
to  our  English  wits  or  honesty.  The  portrait.  No.  437,  for 
instance,  is  a very  respectable  piece  of  painting,  and  would 
have  taken  its  place  well  in  the  year’s  show  of  work,  if  the 
inkstand  had  not  been  as  evanescent  as  the  vision  of  Ezekiel, 
and  the  library  shelves  so  lost  in  the  gloom  of  art,  as  to  sug- 
gest, symbolically,  what  our  bishops  at  home  seem  so  much 
afraid  of — indistinctness  in  colonial  divinity.  And  the  two 
highly  moral  pictures,  101  and  335,  which  are  meant  to 
enforce  on  the  public  mind  the  touching  theories  that,  for 
the  laboring  poor,  grass  is  not  green,  nor  geese  white  ; and 
that  on  the  pastoral  poor,  the  snow  falls  dirty  ; might  have 
delivered  their  solemn  message  just  as  convincingly  from  a 
more  elevated  stage  of  the  wall-pulpit,  without  leaving  on  the 
minds  of  any  profane  spectator  like  myself,  the  impression  of 
their  having  been  executed  by  a converted  crossing-sweeper, 
with  liis  broom,  after  it  was  worn  stumpy. 

If  the  reader  is  interested  in  the  abstract  qualities  of  art, 
he  will  find  it  useful  at  once  to  compare  with  these  more  or 
less  feeble  or  parsimonious  performances,  two  pictures — 


* I permit  myself  to  name,  for  instance,  not  as  worse  than  others,  but 
as  peculiarly  disagreeable  to  myself,  because  I love  monks,  herons,  and 
sea — 450,  291,  and  837. 


190  N0TE8  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


which,  if  not  high  in  attainment,  are  at  least,  the  one  strong, 
and  the  other  generous.  184.  “ Peasantry  of  Esthonia  going 
to  Market  ” (G.  Bochman)  is  masterly  work,  by  a man  prac- 
tised in  his  business  ; but  who  has  been  taught  it  in  a bad 
school.  It  is  a true  artistic  abstraction  of  gray  and  angular 
natural  facts  ; it  indeed  omits  too  much — for  even  in  Es- 
thonia there  must  be  grass  somewhere,  or  what  could  the 
horses  eat  ? — and  it  omits  the  best  things  and  keeps  the 
worst ; but  it  is  done  with  method,  skill,  and  a conscientious 
notion  that  to  be  gray  and  angular  is  to  be  right.  And  it 
deserves  a place  in  an  Academy  exhibition. 

On  the  other  hand,  263,  “ Getting  Better  ” (C.  Calthrop),  is 
an  intensely  laborious,  honest,  and  intentionally  difficult 
study  of  chiaroscuro  in  two  lights,  on  varied  color  ; and  in 
all  other  respects  it  is  well  meant,  and  generousl}^  according 
to  the  painter’s  power,  completed.  I won’t  say  more  of  it, 
because  at  the  height  it  hangs  I can  see  no  more  ; nor  must 
the  reader  suppose  that  what  I ham  said  implies  anything 
beyond  what  is  stated.  All  that  I certify  is,  that  as  a study 
of  chiaroscuro  it  deserves  close  attention,  much  praise,  and  a 
better  place  than  it  at  present  occupies. 

336.  The  Mayor  of  Newcastle.  (W.  W.  Ouless.) 

An  agreeable  and  vigorous  portrait,  highly  creditable  to 
the  painter,  and  honorable  to  its  subject  and  its  possessors. 
Mr.  Ouless  has  adopted  from  Mr.  Millais  v/hat  was  deserving 
of  imitation  ; and  used  the  skill  he  has  learned  to  better 
ends.  All  his  portraits  here  are  vigorous  and  interesting. 

221.  John  Stuart  Blackie.  (J.  Archer.) 

An  entirely  well-meant,  and  I should  conjecture  successful, 
portrait  of  a man  much  deserving  portraiture.  The  back- 
ground has  true  meaning,  and  is  satisfactorily  complete  ; very 
notable,  in  that  character,  among  the  portrait  backgrounds  of 
the  year.  The  whole  is  right  and  good. 

718.  The  Countess  of  Pembroke.  (E.  Clifford.) 

Mr.  Clifford  evidently  means  well,  and  is  studying  in  the 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


101 


elder  schools  ; and  painting  persons  who  will  permit  him  to 
do  his  best  in  his  own  way. 

There  is  much  of  interesting  in  his  work,  but  he  has  yet 
to  pass  through  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  before  he  can  reach 
the  Celestial  Mountains.  He  must  become  perfectly  simple 
before  he  can  be  sublime  ; above  all,  he  must  not  hope  to  be 
great  by  effort.  This  portrait  is  over-labored  ; and,  toward 
the  finishing,  he  has  not  well  seen  what  he  was  doing,  and 
has  not  rightly  balanced  his  front  light  against  that  of  the 
sky.  But  his  drawings  always  deserve  careful  notice. 

317.  Miss  M.  Stuart  Wortley.  (A.  Stuart  Wortley.) 

The  lightest  and  most  dignified  female  portrait  here — as 
Lady  Coleridge’s  drawing  of  Mr.  Newman,  1069,  is  the  most 
subtle  among  those  of  the  members  of  learned  professions 
(though  Mr.  Laurence’s  two  beautiful  drawings,  1054,  1062, 
only  fall  short  of  it  by  exhibiting  too  frankly  the  xiractiscd 
skill  of  their  execution).  1052  is  also  excellent ; and,  on  the 
whole — thinking  over  these,  and  otlier  more  irregular  and 
skirmishing,  but  always  well-meant,  volunteer  work,  sprinkled 
about  the  rooms — I think  the  amateurs  had  better  have  an 
Academy  of  their  own  next  year,  in  which  indulgently,  when 
they  had  room  to  spare,  they  might  admit  the  promising 
effort  of  an  artist. 

I have  scarcely  been  able  to  glance  round  at  the  portrait 
sculpture  ; and  am  always  iniquitously  influenced,  in  judg- 
ing of  marble,  by  my  humor  for  praise  or  dispraise  of  the 
model,  rather  than  artist.  Guarding  m^^self,  as  well  as  I 
may,  from  such  faultful  bias,  I yet  venture  to  name  1342  as 
an  exemplar}"  piece  of  chiselling  ; carefully  and  tenderly 
composed  in  every  touch.  If  the  hair  on  the  forehead  were 
completely  finished,  this  would  be  a nearly  perfect  bust.  I 
cannot  understand  why  the  sculptor  should  have  completed 
the  little  tress  that  falls  on  the  cheek  so  carefully  ; and  yet  left 
so  many  unmodified  contours  in  the  more  important  masses. 

1301.  Thomas  Carlyle.  (J.  E.  Boehm.) 

For  this  noble  piece  of  portraiture  I cannot  trust  myself  to 


192  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


express  my  personal  gratitude  ; nor  does  either  the  time  I can 
give  to  these  notes,  or  their  limited  intention,  permit  me — if 
even  otherwise  I could  think  it  permissible — to  speak  at  all 
of  the  high  and  harmonious  measure  in  which  it  seems  to  me 
to  express  the  mind  and  features  of  my  dear  Master. 

This  only  it  is  within  the  compass  of  my  present  purpose 
to  affirm — that  here  is  a piece  of  vital  and  essential  sculpture ; 
the  result  of  sincere  skill  spent  carefully  on  an  object  worthy 
its  care  : motive  and  method  alike  right ; no  pains  spared  ; 
and  none  wasted.  And  any  spectator  of  sensitiveness  will 
find  that,  broadly  speaking,  all  the  sculpture  round  seems 
dead  and  heavy  in  comparison,  after  he  has  looked  long  at 
this. 

There  must  always  be,  indeed,  some  difference  in  the  im- 
mediate effect  on  our  minds  betw'een  the  picturesque  treat- 
ment proper  in  portrait  sculpture,  and  that  belonging,  by  its 
grace  of  reserve,  to  classical  design.  But  it  is  generally  a 
note  of  weakness  in  an  Englishman  when  he  thinks  he  can 
conceive  like  a Greek  ; so  that  the  plurality  of  modern 
Hellenic  Academy  sculpture  consists  merely  of  imperfect 
anatomical  models  peeped  at  through  bath-towels  ; and  is  in 
the  essence  of  it  quite  as  dull  as  it  appears  to  be.  Let  us  go 
back  to  less  dignified  work. 

196.  School  Eevisited.  (G.  D.  Leslie,  A.) 

I came  upon  this  picture  early,  in  my  first  walk  through 
the  rooms,  and  was  so  delighted  with  it  that  it  made  me  lihe 
everything  else  I saw,  that  morning  ; it  is  altogether  ex- 
quisite in  rendering  some  of  the  sweet  qualities  of  English 
girlhood  ; and,  on  the  whole,  the  most  easy  and  graceful 
composition  in  the  rooms.  I had  written  first,  “masterly” 
composition  ; but  no  composition  is  quite  masterly  which 
modifies  or  subdues  any  of  the  natural  facts  so  as  to  force 
certain  relations  between  them.  Mr.  Leslie  at  present  sub- 
dues all  greens,  refuses  all  but  local  darks,  and  scarcely  per- 
mits himself,  even  in  flesh,  color  enough  for  life.  Young 
ladies  at  a happy  country  boarding-school,  like  this,  'would 
be  as  bright  as  by  the  seaside ; and  there  is  no  reason  why  a 


m THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


193 


knov/ledge-gatherer,  well  cared  for,  should  be  less  rosy  than 
a samphire-gatherer. 

Eich  color  may  be  in  good  taste,  as  well  as  the  poorest ; 
and  the  quaintness,  politeness,  and  grace  of  Leslie  might  yet 
glow  with  the  strength  and  freshness  of  Hook.  It  ma^^  per- 
haps be  more  difficult  than  I suppose  to  get  the  delicate  lines 
and  gradations  on  which  the  expression  of  these  girls  mainly 
depends  in  deeper  color.  But,  at  all  events,  the  whole 
should  be  more  in  harmony,  and  more  consistently  precious. 
English  girls  are,  perhaps,  not  all  of  them,  St.  Dorothys ; but 
at  least  they  are  good  enough  to  deserve  to  have  their  rose- 
leaves  ])ainted  about  them  thoroughly. 

The  little  tiling  on  the  extreme  left,  with  the  hoop,  is  as 
pleasant  a shadow  of  nature  as  can  be  conceived  in  this  kind : 
and  I have  no  words  to  say  how  pretty  she  is. 

But  Mr.  Leslie  is  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  artist  life.  His 
earlier  pictures  were  finer  in  color — and  color  is  the  soul  of 
painting.  If  he  could  resolve  to  paint  thoroughly,  and  give 
the  colors  of  Nature  as  they  are,  he  might  be  a really  great 
painter,  and  almost  hold,  to  Bonifazio,  the  position  that  Bey- 
iiolds  held  to  Titian.  But  if  he  subdues  his  color  for  the 
sake  of  black  ribands,  white  dresses,  or  faintly  idealized  faces, 
he  will  become  merely  an  Academic  leaf  of  the  “ Magazin  des 
Modes.” 

For  the  present,  however,  this  picture,  and  the  clay  portrait 
of  Carlyle,  are,  as  far  as  my  review  reaches,  the  only  two 
works  of  essential  value  in  the  Exhibition  of  this  year — that 
is  to  say,  the  only  works  of  quietly  capable  art,  representing 
what  deserved  representation. 

English  girls,  by  an  English  painter.  Whether  you  call 
them  Madonnas,  or  saints — or  what  not — it  is  the  law  of  art- 
life  ; your  own  people,  as  they  live,  are  the  only  ones  you  can 
understand.  Only  living  Venice,  done  by  Venetian — living 
Greece  by  Greek — living  Scotland,  perhaps,  which  has  much 
loved  Germany,  by  living  Germany,  which  has  much  rever- 
enced Scotland  : such  expansion  of  law  may  be  granted  ; nay, 
the  strangeness  of  a foreign  country,  making  an  artist’s  sight 
of  it  shrewd  and  selective,  may  produce  a sweet  secondary 


19i  N0TE8  ON  THE  FRINGiP^L  PICTURES 


form  of  beautiful  art ; your  Spanish  Lewis — your  French 
Front — your  Italian  Wilson  — and  their  like — second-rate 
nevertheless,  always.  Not  Lewis,  but  only  Velasquez,  can 
paint  a perfect  Spaniard  ; not  Wilson,  nor  Turner,  but  only 
Carpaccio,  can  paint  an  Italian  landscape  ; and,  too  fatally, 
the  effort  is  destructive  to  the  painters,  beyond  all  resistance  ; 
and  Lewis  loses  his  animal  power  among  the  arabesques  of 
Cairo  ; Turner,  his  Yorkshire  honesty  at  Borne  ; and  Holman 
Hunt — painting  the  Light  of  the  World  in  an  English  or- 
chard— paints  the  gaslight  of  Bond  Street  in  the  Holy  Land. 

English  maids,  I repeat,  by  an  English  painter  : that  is  all 
that  an  English  Academy  can  produce  of  loveliest.  There’s 
another  beautiful  little  one,  by  Mr.  Leighton,  with  a purple 
drapery  thrown  over  her,  that  she  may  be  called  Fatima  (215, 
and  315),  who  would  have  been  quite  infinitely  daintier  in  a 
print  frock,  and  called  Patty.  And  I fear  there  are  no  more, 
to  speak  of,  by  artists,*  this  year ; the  two  vivid  sketches, 
222,  262,  being  virtually  put  out  of  court  by  their  coarse 
wo]*k.  (Look  close  at  the  painting  of  the  neck,  in  the  one, 
and  of  the  left  hand,  in  the  other.)  Of  English  men,  there  is 
the  Mayor,  and  the  Chemist ; a vigorous  squire  or  two,  and 
the  group  of  grand  old  soldiers  at  Greenwich — a most  notable, 
true,  jDathetic  study  ; but  scarcely  artistic  enough  to  be  reck- 
oned as  of  much  more  value  than  a good  illustrative  woodcut. 
Mr.  Wyatts’  portraits  are  all  conscientious  and  subtle,  and  of 
great  present  interest,  yet  not  realistic  enough  to  last.  Exclu- 
sively I return  to  my  Carlyle  and  the  school-girls,  as,  the  one, 
sure  to  abide  against  the  beating  of  the  time  stream  ; and 
the  other,  possibly  floating  on  it,  discernible  as  a flower  in 
foam. 


* But  see  note  on  317,  p.  191. 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


195 


NATUEAL  HISTORY. 

There  ought  to  be  a separate  room  in  our  Academy  for  the 
exhibition  of  the  magnificent  work  in  scientific  drawing  and 
engraving,  done,  at  present,  almost  without  public  notice,  for 
the  illustrations  of  great  European  works  on  Palaeontology, 
Zoology,  and  Botany.  The  feeling,  on  the  pairt  of  our  artists, 
that  an  idle  landscape  sketch,  or  a clever  caricature,  may  be 
admitted  into  their  rooms  as  “artistic  and  that  work  which 
the  entire  energy  of  early  life  must  be  given  to  learn,  and  of 
late  life  to  execute — is  to  be  excluded,  merely  because  it  is 
thoroughly  true  and  useful — is  I hope  likely  to  yield,  some 
day,  to  the  scientific  enthusiasm  which  has  prevailed  often 
wliere  it  should  have  been  resisted,  and  may  surely  therefore 
conquer,  in  time,  where  it  has  honorable  claims. 

There  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  however,  to  be  seen  here, 
hitherto  ; but  I may  direct  attention  under  this  head,  rather 
than  that  of  landscape,  to  the  exquisite  skill  of  delineation 
with  which  Mr.  Cooke  has  finished  the  group  of  palm-trees  in 
his  wonderful  study  of  Sunset  at  Denderah.  (443.)  The 
sacrifice  of  color  in  shadow  for  the  sake  of  brilliancy  in  light, 
essentially  a principle  of  Holland  as  opposed  to  Venice,  is  in 
great  degree  redeemed  in  this  picture  by  the  extreme  care 
with  which  the  relations  of  light  are  observed  on  the  terms 
conceded  : but  surely,  from  so  low  sunset,  the  eastern  slopes 
of  the  mountains  on  the  left  could  not  have  been  reached  by 
so  many  rays  ? 

To  this  division  of  our  subject  also  must  be  referred  Mr. 
Brett’s  “Spires  and  Steeples  of  the  Channel  Islands”  (497), 
but  with  less  praise,  for  since  the  days  when  I first  endeav- 
ored to  direct  the  attention  of  a careless  public  to  his  con- 
scientious painting  of  the  Sbonebreaker  and  Woodcutter,  he 
has  gained  nothing — rather,  I fear,  lost,  in  subtlety  of  execu- 
tion, and  necessitates  the  decline  of  his  future  power  by  per- 
sistently covering  too  large  canvas.  There  is  no  occasion  that 
a geological  study  should  also  be  a geological  map  ; and  even 


190  NOTES  ON  THE  PUINCIFAL  PIOTUPES 


his  earlier  picture,  which  I am  honored  in  possessing,  of  the 
Val  d’Aosta,  would  have  been  more  precious  to  me  if  it  had 
been  only  of  half  the  Val  d’Aosta. 

The  extreme  distance  here,  however,  beyond  the  promon- 
tory, is  without  any  question  the  best  bit  of  sea  and  atmos- 
phere in  the  rooms.  The  paint  on  the  water  surface  in  the 
bay  is  too  loaded  ; but  laid  with  extreme  science  in  alterna- 
tions of  color. 

At  a still  lower  level,  though  deserving  some  position  in 
the  Natural  History  class  for  its  essential,  though  rude,  and 
apparently  motiveless,  veracity,  must  be  placed  “ The  Fringe 
of  the  Moor.”  (74.) 

But  why  one  should  paint  the  fringe  of  the  moor,  rather 
than  the  breadth  of  it,  merely  for  the  privilege  of  carrying  an 
ugly  wooden  fence  all  across  the  foreground,  I must  leave 
modern  sentimentalists  and  naturalists  to  explain.  Vestiges 
of  the  painter’s  former  power  of  seeing  true  color  remain  in 
the  iridescent  distance,  but  now  only  disgrace  the  gentle  hill- 
sides with  their  coarseness  of  harlequinade  ; and  the  daubed 
sky — daubed  without  patience  even  to  give  unity  of  direction 
to  the  bristle  marks — seems  to  have  been  wrought  in  obtrusive 
directness  of  insult  to  every  master,  principle,  and  feeling 
reverenced,  or  experienced,  in  the  schools  of  noble  art,  from 
its  nativity  to  this  hour. 

And,  closing  the  equivocal  group  of  works  in  which  Natu- 
ralism prevails  unjustly  over  art,  I am  obliged  to  rank  Mr. 
Leighton’s  interesting  study  of  man  in  his  Oriental  function 
of  scarecrow  (symmetrically  antithetic  to  his  British  one  of 
game-preserver)  398.  It  is,  I do  not  doubt,  anatomically  cor- 
rect ; and,  with  the  addition  of  the  corn,  the  poppies,  and 
the  moon,  becomes  semi-artistic  ; so  that  I feel  much  com- 
punction in  depressing  it  into  the  Natural  History  class  ; and 
the  more,  because  it  partly  forfeits  its  claim  even  to  such 
position,  by  obscuring  in  twilight  its  really  valuable  delinea- 
tion of  the  body,  and  disturbing  our  minds,  in  the  process  of 
scientific  investigation,  by  sensational  effects  of  afterglow,  and 
lunar  effulgence,  which  are  disadvantageous,  not  to  the  scien- 
tific observer  only,  but  to  less  learned  spectators  ; for  when 


/iY  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


197 


simple  arid  superstitions  persons  like  myself,  greatly  suscep- 
tible to  the  inhuence  of  low  stage  lamps  and  pink  side-lights, 
first  catch  sight  of  the  striding  figure  from  the  other  side  of 
tlie  room,  and  take  it,  perhaps,  for  the  angel  with  his  right 
foot  on  the  sea  and  his  left  foot  on  the  earth,  swearing  there 
shall  be  Time  no  longer  ; or  for  Achilles  alighting  from  one 
of  his  lance-cast-long  leaps  on  the  shore  of  Scamander ; and 
find,  on  near  approach,  that  all  this  grand  straddling,  and 
turning  down  of  the  gas,  mean,  practically,  only  a lad  shying 
stones  at  sparrows,  we  are  but  too  likely  to  pass  on  petulantly, 
without  taking  note  of  what  is  really  interesting  in  this 
Eastern  custom  and  skill — skill  which  I would  recommend  with 
all  my  heart  to  the  imitation  of  the  British  game-preserver 
aforesaid,  when  the  glorious  end  of  Preservation  is  to  be  ac- 
complished in  Battue.  Good  slinging  would  involve  more 
healthy  and  graceful  muscular  action  than  even  the  finest 
shooting  ; and  miglit,  if  "we  fully  followed  the  Eastern  example, 
be  most  usefully  practised  in  other  periods  of  the  year,  and 
districts  of  England,  than  those  now  consecrated  to  the  sports 
of  our  aristocracy.  I cannot  imagine  a more  edifying  spectacle 
than  a British  landlord  in  the  middle  of  his  farmer’s  cornfieldj 
occupied  in  this  entirely  patriotic  method  of  Protection. 

The  remainder  of  the  pictures  which  I have  to  notice  as  be- 
longing to  the  domain  of  Natural  History,  are  of  indubitable, 
though  unpretending,  merit  : they  represent  indeed  pure 
Zoology  in  its  highest  function  of  Animal  Biography,  which 
scientific  persons  will  one  day  find  requires  much  more  learned 
investigation  of  its  laws  than  the  Thanatography  which  is  at 
present  their  exclusive  occupation  and  entertainment. 

414.  A Fascinating  Tail.  (H.  H.  Couldery.) 

Quite  the  most  skilful  piece  of  minute  and  Dureresque  paint- 
ing in  the  exhibition — (it  cannot  be  rightly  seen  without  a 
lens)  ; and  in  its  sympathy  with  kitten  nature,  down  to  the 
most  appalling  depths  thereof,  and  its  tact  and  sensitiveness 
to  the  finest  gradations  of  kittenly  meditation  and  motion, — 
unsurpassable.  It  seems  hard  to  require  of  a painter  who  has 
toiled  so  much,  that,  for  this  very  reason,  he  should  toil  the 


198  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


more.  Bat  “ Tbe  Little  Epicure  ” (1G9)  cannot  be  considered 
a picture  till  the  cabbage  leaves  are  as  perfect  as  the  fish. 

1234.  The  First  Taste.  (S.  Carter.) 

Altogether  enjoyable  to  me  ; and  I am  prepared  to  maintain 
(as  a true  lover  of  dogs,  young  and  old),  against  all  my  heroic 
and  tragically-minded  friends,  that  this  picture  is  exemplary 
in  its  choice  of  a moment  of  supreme  puppy  felicity,  as  prop- 
erest  time  for  puppy  portraiture.  And  I thankfully — and  with 
some  shame  for  my  generally  too  great  distrust  of  modern 
sentiment — acknowledge,  before  it,  that  there  is  a real  ele- 
ment of  fine  benevolence  toward  animals,  in  us,  advanced 
quite  infinitely,  and  into  another  world  of  feeling,  from  the 
days  of  Snyders  and  Eubens.  “ The  Little  Wanderers  ” (1173), 
by  this  same  painter,  are  a most  pathetic  and  touching  group 
of  children  in  the  wood.  You  may  see,  if  you  will  take  your 
opera-glass  to  it,  that  the  robin  is  even  promising  to  cover 
them  with  leaves,  if  indeed  things  are  to  end,  as  seems  too 
probable.  And  compare,  by  the  way,  the  still  more  meek  and 
tender  human  destitution,  “ To  be  Left  till  Called  for,”  83, 
which  I am  ashamed  of  myself  for  forgetting,  as  one  of  the 
pretty  things  that  first  encouraged  me  to  write  these  notes. 
“ Nobody’s  Log”  may  console  us  with  his  more  cynical  view 
of  his  position  in  the  wide  world  ; and  finally,  Miss  Acland’s 
Platonic  puppy  (737)  shows  us  how  events  of  the  most  unex- 
pected, and  even  astounding,  character  may  be  regarded,  by 
a dog  of  sense,  with  entire  moral  tranquillity,  and  consequently 
with  undisturbed  powers  of  reflection  and  penetration. 

How  strange  that  I cannot  add  to  my  too  short  list  of  ani- 
mal studies — any,  however  unimportant,  of  Birds  ! (I  do  not 
count  as  deserving  notice  at  all,  dramatic  effects  of  vulture, 
raven,  etc.)  Not  a nest — not  a plume  ! English  society  now 
caring  only  for  kingfishers’  skins  on  its  hat,  and  plovers’  eggs 
on  its  plate. 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


199 


LANDSCAPE. 

The  distinction  between  Natural  Historic  painting  of  scen- 
ery and  true  Landscape,  is  that  the  one  represents  objects  as 
a Government  Surveyor  does,  for  the  sake  of  a good  account 
of  the  things  themselves,  without  emotion,  or  definite  purpose 
of  expression.  Landscape  painting  shows  the  relation  be- 
tween nature  and  man  ; and,  in  fine  work,  a particular  tone 
of  thought  in  the  painter’s  mind  respecting  what  he  repre- 
sents. 

I endeavored,  thirty  years  ago,  in  “ Modern  Painters,”  to 
explain  this  difference  briefl}^,  by  saying  that,  in  Natural  His- 
tory painting,  the  artist  was  only  the  spectator’s  horse  ; but 
in  Landscape  painting,  his  friend. 

The  worst  of  such  friendliness,  however,  is  that  a conceited 
painter  may  at  last  leave  Nature  out  of  the  question  altogether, 
and  talk  of  himself  only  ; and  then  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
to  go  back  to  the  Government  Surveyor.  Mr.  Brett,  in  his 
coast  scene  above  noticed,  gives  us  things,  without  thoughts  ; 
and  the  fuliginous  moralists  above  noticed,  thoughts — such 
as  they  are— -without  things  : by  all  means  let  us  rather  have 
the  geographical  synopsis. 

415.  Hoppers  on  the  Koad.  (W.  Linnell.) 

Tliis  is  a landscape,  however  ; and,  if  it  were  more  lightly 
painted,  we  might  be  very  happy  with  it.  Mr.  Linnell  cares 
no  more  than  his  father  for  brush-dexterity  ; but  he  does  no 
worse  now,  in  that  part  of  the  business,  than  everyone  else. 
And  what  a relief  it  is,  for  any  wholesome  human  sight,  after 
sickening  itself  among  the  blank  horrors  of  dirt,  ditch-water, 
and  malaria,  whicli  the  imitators  of  the  French  schools  have 
begrimed  our  various  exhibition  walls  witli,  to  find  once  more 
a bit  of  blue  in  the  sk}^  and  a glow  of  brown  in  the  coppice, 
and  to  see  that  Hoppers  in  Kent  can  enjoy  their  scarlet  and 
purple — like  empresses  and  emperors ! 


2:0  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


1199.  Summer  Days  for  Me.  (A.  W.  Hunt.) 

I am  at  some  pause  in  expressing  my  pleasure  in  the  realiza- 
tion of  this  beautiful  scene,  because  I have  personal  interest 
in  it,  my  own  favorite  summer  walk  being  through  this  very 
field.  As,  however,  I was  far  away  at  Assisi  when  the  artist 
painted  it,  and  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  either  the 
choice  or  treatment  of  his  subject,  it  is  not  indecorous  for  me 
to  praise  a work  in  which  I am  able  so  securely  to  attest  a 
fidelity  of  portraiture,  happily  persisted  in  without  losing  the 
grace  of  imagination. 

It  is  the  only  picture  of  the  year  which  I saw  in  the  studio ; 
and  that  by  chance  ; for  it  is  one  of  my  fixed  laws  not  to  look 
at  pictures  before  they  take  their  fair  trial  in  the  Academy. 
But  I ventured  to  find  fault  with  the  sky.  The  sky  w^as 
courteously  changed  to  please  me  ; but  I am  encroaching 
enough  to  want  it  changed  more.  “ Summer  days  are”  not 
‘‘  for  me  ” unless  the  sky  is  blue  in  them,  and  especially  unless 
it  looks — what  simple  mortals  too  often  make  it  in  realitj% — a 
great  way  off,  I want  this  sky  to  look  bluer  at  the  top,  and 
farther  awa}^  at  the  bottom.  The  brook  on  the  right  is  one 
of  the  very  few  pieces  of  stream  which,  this  year,  have  been 
studied  for  their  beauty,  not  their  rage. 

256.  Wise  Saws.  (J.  C.  Hook,  E.A.) 

I suspect  that  many,  even  of  the  painter’s  admirers,  pass 
this  pretty  sketch  without  noticing  the  humor  with  which  he 
has  expressed  the  gradations  of  feminine  curiosity,  scientific 
attention,  and  conscientious  sense  of  responsibility,  in  the 
faces  of  the  troop  of  cows  who  approach  to  investigate  the 
nature  of  the  noisy  phenomenon  upon  the  palings.  It  is  a 
charming  summer  sketch,  but  scarcely  worth  sending  to  the 
Academy ; and  time  was  wasted  by  the  good  painter  in  carry- 
ing so  far,  what  he  felt  his  skill  would  be  misapplied  in 
carrying  farther. 

I am  sure  that  Mr.  Hook  cannot  lately  have  been  reading 
his  Kichard  II. ; but,  whether  the  line  quoted  for  his  motto 
chanced  idly  to  occur  to  his  memory,  or  was  suggested  to  him 
by  some  acquaintance,  he  will,  I trust,  find  a more  decorous, 


IN  TUB  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


201 


as  he  easily  may  a more  amusing,  motto  for  his  pretty  cattle 
piece,  before  it  becomes  known  in  the  picture  market  as  the 
parody  of  one  of  the  most  pathetic  utterances  in  all  Shake- 
spearian tragedy. 

123.  On  the  River  Mole.  (Birket  Foster.) 

In  doubt  whether  the  spectator,  without  assistance,  would 
see  all  the  metaphysical  distinctions  between  the  cows  in  Mr. 
Hook’s  landscape,  I need  a more  keen-sighted  spectator’s 
assistance  to  tell  me,  in  Mr.  Foster’s,  whether  those  animals 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Mole  are  cows  at  all.  If  so,  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  in  the  hedge  beyond  are  about  twenty 
yards  in  girth.  What  do  our  good  water-color  paintei-s  mean 
by  wasting  their  time  in  things  like  this  (and  I could  name 
one  or  two  who  have  done  worse),  for  the  sake  of  getting 
their  names  into  the  Academy  catalogue  ? 

69,  81.  The  Horse-dealer.  Crossing  the  Moor, 

I have  not  looked  long  enough  at  these  to  justify  me  in 
saying  more  of  them  than  that  they  should  not  be  here  on  the 
line.  That  much  I mud  say  ; and  emphatically, 

265.  (I  venture  to  supply  a title,  the  painter  seeming  to 
have  been  at  a loss.)  A Wild  Rose,  remarkable  in  being  left 
on  its  stalk,  demonstrates  to  the  poet  Campbell  that  there  has 
been  a garden  in  this  locality. 

Little  thought  I,  when  I wrote  the  first  line  of  ‘‘  Modern 
Painters,”  that  a day  would  come  when  I should  have  to  say 
of  a modern  picture  what  I must  say  of  this.  When  I began 
my  book,  Wilkie  was  yet  living  ; and  though  spoiled  by  his 
Spanish  ambition,  the  master’s  hand  was  yet  unpalsied,  nor 
had  lost  its  skill  of  practice  in  its  pride.  Turner  was  in  his 
main  color-strength,  and  the  dark  room  of  the  Academy  had, 
every  year,  its  four  or  five  painted  windows,  bright  as  the 
jewel  casements  of  Aladdin’s  palace,  and  soft  as  a kingfisher’s 
wings.  Mulready  was  at  the  crowning  summit  of  his  laborious 
skill  ; and  the  “ Burchell  and  Sophia  in  the  Hay  field,”  and 
the  ‘'Choosing  of  the  Wedding  Dress,”  remain  in  my  mind  as 


202  N0TE8  ON  THE  PBINCIPAL  PICTURES 


staDclards  of  English  effort  in  rivalship  with  the  best  masters 
of  Holland.  Constable’s  clumsy  hand  was  honest,  and  his 
flickering  sunshine  fair.  Stanfield,  sea-bred,  knew  what  a ship 
was,  and  loved  it ; knew  what  rocks  and  waves  were,  and 
wrought  out  their  strength  and  sway  with  steadiest  will. 
David  Roberts,  though  utterly  destitute  of  imagination,  and 
incapable  of  color,  was  at  least  a practised  draughtsman  in 
his  own  field  of  architectural  decoration  ; loved  his  Burgos  or 
Seville  cathedral  fronts  as  a woman  loves  lace  ; and  drew  the 
details  of  Egyptian  hieroglyph  with  dutiful  patience,  not  to 
show  his  own  skill,  but  to  keep  witness  of  the  antiquity  he 
had  the  wisdom  to  reverence  ; while,  not  a hundred  yards 
from  the  Academy  portico,  in  the  room  of  the  old  water- 
color,  Lewis  was  doing  work  which  surpassed,  in  execution, 
everything  extant  since  Carpaccio  ; and  Copley-Fielding,  Rob- 
son, Cox,  and  Prout  were  everyone  of  them,  according  to 
their  strength,  doing  true  things  with  loving  minds. 

The  like  of  these  last-named  men,  in  simplicity  and  tender^ 
ness  of  natural  feeling,  expressing  itself  with  disciplined 
(though  often  narrow)  skill,  does  not,  so  far  as  I can  see,  now 
exist  in  the  ranks  of  art-laborers  ; and  even  of  men  doing 
their  absolute  best  according  to  their  knowledge,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  many  among  the  most  renowned  exhibitors  of 
London  and  Paris  ; while  here,  full  on  the  line,  with  highest 
Academic  name,  and  hailed  by  explosive  applause  from  the 

whole  nation,  here  is I cannot  use  strength  of  words 

enough  to  tell  you  what  it  is,  unless  you  will  first  ascertain 
for  yourselves  what  it  is  not. 

Get  what  good  you  can  of  it,  or  anything  else  in  the  rooms 
to-day  ; but  to-morrow,  or  when  next  you  mean  to  come  to  the 
Academy,  go  first  for  half  an  hour  into  the  National  Gallery, 
and  look  closely  and  thoroughly  at  the  painting  of  the  soldier’s 
helmet,  and  crimson  plume  in  John  Bellini’s  Peter  Martyr ; 
at  the  horse-bridle  in  the  large,  nameless  Venetian  picture  of 
the  Madonna  and  kneeling  Knight ; at  the  herbage  in  tbe  fore- 
ground of  Mantegna’s  Madonna  ; and  at  Titian’s  columbines 
and  vine  in  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  All  these  are  examples 
of  true  painter’s  work  in  minor  detail ; unsurpassable,  but  not, 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


203 


by  patience  and  modesty,  inimitable.  There  was  once  a day 
wlien  the  painter  of  this  (soi-disant)  landscape  promised  to  do 
work  as  good.  If,  coming  straight  from  that  to  this,  you  like 
this  best,  be  properly  thankful  for  the  blessings  of  modern 
science  and  art,  and  for  all  the  good  guidance  of  Kensington 
and  Messrs.  Agnew.  But  if  you  think  that  the  four-petalled 
rose,  the  sprinkle  of  hips  looking  like  ill-drawn  heather,  the 
sundial  looking  like  an  ill-drawn  fountain,  the  dirty  birch-tree, 
and  the  rest — whatever  it  is  meant  for — of  the  inarticulate 
brown  scrabble,  are  not  likely  to  efface  in  the  eyes  of  future 
generations  the  fame  of  Venice  and  Etruria,  you  have  always 
the  heroic  consolation  given  you  in  the  exclamation  of  the 
Spectator — “If  we  must  choose  between  a Titian  and  a Lan- 
cashire cotton  mill — give  us  the  cotton  mill.” 

Literally,  here  you  have  your  cotton  mill  employed  in  its 
own  Si^ecial  Art-produce.  Here  you  have,  what  was  once  the 
bone  and  sinew  of  a great  painter,  ground  and  carded  down 
into  black-podded  broom-twigs.  That  is  what  has  come  to 
pass  upon  him  ; that,  his  finding  on  his  “ r uinous  walk  ” over 
the  diabolic  Tom  Tidler’s  ground  of  Manchester  and  Salford. 
Threshed  under  the  mammon  flail  into  threads  and  dust,  and 
shodd}^-fodder  for  fools  ; making  manifest  yet,  with  what  rag- 
ged remnant  of  painter’s  life  is  in  him,  the  results  of  mechani- 
cal English  labor  on  English  land.  Not  here  the  garden  of 
the  sluggard,  green  with  frank  weeds  ; not  here  the  garden  of 
the  Deserted  Village,  overgrown  with  ungathered  balm  ; not 
here  the  noble  secrecy  of  a virgin  country,  where  the  falcon 
floats  and  the  wild  goat  plays  ; but  here  the  withering  pleas- 
ance  of  a fallen  race,  who  have  sold  their  hearths  for  money, 
and  their  glory  for  a morsel  of  bread. 

231.  The  Quarries  of  Holmeground.  (J.  S.  Kaven.) 

The  painter  has  real  feeling  of  the  sublimity  of  hill  forms, 
and  has  made  the  most  of  his  Langdale  pikes.  But  it  is  very 
wonderful  that  in  all  this  Academy,  so  far  as  I have  yet  seen, 
there  is  not  a single  patient  study  of  a mossy  rock.  Now  the 
beauty  of  foreground  stone  is  to  be  mossy,  as  the  beauty  of  a 
beast  is  to  be  furry  ; and  a quarried  rock  is  to  a natural  one 


204  NOTES  ON  THE  PFJNCTPAL  PIGTUUES 


what  a skinned  leopard  is  to  a live  one.  Even  if,  as  a simple 
painter,  and  no  huntsman,  one  liked  one’s  leopard  or  tiger 
better  dead  than  alive,  at  least  let  us  have  him  dead  in  his 
integrity  ; or — if  so  much  as  that  cannot  be, — for  pictorial 
purpose  it  is  better  to  have,  as  in  No.  697,  the  skin  without 
the  tiger,  than,  as  here,  the  tiger  without  the  skin.  (No.  697, 
by  the  w^ay,  should  have  been  named  in  the  Natural  History 
class,  for  a good  study  as  far  as  it  reaches,  and  there  may  be 
more  substantial  drawing  in  it  than  I can  see  at  the  height 
where  it  is  hung.) 

Another  sorrowful  character  in  the  mountain-painting  of 
this  year,  is  the  almost  total  absence  of  any  attempt  to  ren- 
der calm  and  full  sunshine.  564  and  368  are,  I think,  the 
only  exceptions,  though  scarcely  worth  noticing  except  as 
such  ; unless  the  latter,  for  the  extreme  and  singular  beauty 
of  the  natural  scene  it  represents.  The  “Mountain  Twilight,” 
759,  W.  C.  Eddington,  is  evidently  a pure  and  careful  study 
of  evening  air  among  noble  hills.  What  an  incomparabl}’’  rid- 
iculous mob  this  London  mob  is  ! — to  let  some  square  leagues 
of  room  lie  about  its  metropolis  in  waste  brick-field,  and  oc- 
cupy immeasurable  space  of  wall  with  advertisements  of  pills 
and  pictures  of  newly-opened  shops  ; and  lift  a lovely  little 
drawing  like  this  simply — out  of  its  way. 

237.  Richmond  Hill.  (Vicat  Cole,  A.) 

The  passages  on  the  left,  under  the  trees,  of  distant  and 
subdued  light,  in  their  well-studied  perfection,  are  about  the 
most  masterly  things  in  landscape  work  in  this  exhibition  ; 
but  has  the  painter  never  in  his  life  seen  the  view  from  Rich- 
mond Hill  on  a clear  day  ? Such  a thing  is  still  possible  ; 
and  when  it  happens,  is  the  time  to  paint  that  distance,  or  at 
least  (for  the  passages  on  the  left  imply  mist),  when  the  in- 
distinctness of  it  may  be  in  golden  mist,  not  gas  fume.  The 
last  line  quoted  from  Thomson  seems  to  have  been  written 
prophetically,  to  describe  the  England  of  our  own  day.  But 
Thomson  was  never  thinking  of  real  smoko  when  he  wrote  it. 
He  was  as  far  from  imagining  that  English  landscape  would 
ever  be  stifled  in  floating  filth,  as  that  the  seasons  should 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


205 


stop  rolling,  or  April  not  know  itself  from  November.  He 
means  merely  the  warm  mist  of  an  extreme  horizon  ; and  has 
at  least  given  us  something  to  look  at  before  we  come  to  it. 
What  has  Mr.  Vicat  Cole  done  with  all  those  hills,  and  dales, 
and  woods,  and  lawns,  and  spires,  which  he  leads  us  to  ex- 
pect ? 

I think  I never  saw  a large  picture  so  much  injured  by  a 
little  fault,  as  this  is  by  the  white  wake  of  the  farthest  boat  on 
the  river.  As  a fact,  it  is  impossible  ; as  a white  line,  it  cuts 
all  to  pieces. 

651.  The  Head  of  a Highland  Glen.  (F.  C.  Newcome.) 

The  best  study  of  torrent,  including  distant  and  near  water, 
that  I find  in  the  rooms : 1075  has  been  most  carefully  and 
admirably  studied  from  nature  by  Mr.  Raven  : only  what  is 
the  use  of  trying  to  draw  water  with  charcoal  ? and  what 
makes  nearly  all  the  painters  this  year  choose  to  paint  their 
streams  in  a rage,  and  foul  with  fiood,  instead  of  in  their  beauty, 
and  constant  beneficence  ? Our  manufacturers  have  still  left, 
in  some  parts  of  England  and  Scotland,  streams  of  what  may 
be  advertised  in  the  bills  of  Natural  Scenery  as  “ real  water  ; ” 
and  I myself  know  several  so  free  from  pollution  that  one  can 
sit  near  them  wdth  perfect  safety,  even  when  they  are  not  in 
flood. 

The  rest  of  this  mountain  scene  by  Mr.  Newcome  is  also 
carefully  studied,  and  very  right  and  good. 

756.  The  Llugwy  at  Capel  Curig.  (I.  J.  Cuimock.) 

I find  this  to  be  the  most  attentive  and  refined  landscape  of 
all  here  ; too  subdued  in  its  tone  for  my  own  pleasure,  but 
skilful  and  affectionate  in  a high  degree  ; and  one  of  the  few 
exceptions  to  my  general  statement  above  made  ; for  here  is 
a calm  stream  patiently  studied.  The  distant  woods  and  hills 
are  all  very  tender  and  beautiful. 

636  is  also  a singularly  careful  and  unassumingly  true  draw- 
ing ; — but  are  the  town  and  rail  not  disquieted  enough, — that 
we  should  get  no  rest  in  a village  ? 


206 


NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


POLICY. 

We  finally  inquire  what  our  British  artists  have  to  say  to  us 
on  the  subject  of  good  Government,  and  its  necessary  results ; 
— what  triumph  they  express  in  the  British  Constitution  and 
its  present  achievements. 

In  old  times,  all  gTeat  artistic  nations  were  pictorially  talka- 
tive, chiefiy,  next  to  religion,  on  the  subject  of  Government. 
Venice,  Florence,  and  Siena  did  little  else  than  expound,  in 
figures  and  mythic  types,  the  nature  of  civic  dignity,  states- 
manly  duty,  and  senatorial  or  soldierly  honor ; and  record, 
year  by  year,  tlie  events  conducive  to  their  fame. 

I have  not  exhaustively  overlooked  the  Academy  ; but,  ex- 
cept Miss  Thomson’s  study  of  a battle  fought  just  “ sixty 
years  since,” — I find  no  English  record  of  any  important  mili- 
tary or  naval  achievement ; and  the  only  exhibition  of  the 
mode  in  which  Britannia,  at  present  rules  the  waves,  is  Mr. 
Cooke’s  ‘‘  Devastation  ” being  reviewed  ; somewhat  sable  and 
lugubrious  as  a national  spectacle,  dubious  as  a national 
triumph,  and  to  myself,  neither  in  color  nor  sentiment  enjoy- 
able, as  the  pictures  of  Victorys  and  Temeraires  one  used  to 
see  in  days  of  simpler  warfare.  And  of  political  achievement 
there  seems  still  less  consciousness  or  regard  in  the  British 
artist ; so  that  future  generations  will  ask  in  vain  for  any  aid 
to  their  imagination  of  the  introduction  of  Dr.  Kenealy  to  the 
Speaker,  or  any  other  recent  triumph  of  the  British  Consti- 
tution. 

The  verdict  of  existing  British  Art  on  existing  British 
Policy  is,  therefore,  if  I understand  it  rightly,  that  we  have 
none  ; but,  in  the  battle  of  life,  have  arrived  at  declaration 
of  an  universal  Sauve  qui  pent  ; — or  explicitly,  to  all  men.  Do 
as  you  like,  and  get  what  you  can.  Something  other  than  this 
may  however  be  gathered,  it  seems  to  me,  from  the  two  records 
given  us  of  the  war, — so  unwise,  and  yet  so  loyal, — of  sixty 
years  ago. 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


207 


618.  La  Charge  des  Cuirassiers  Fran9ais  a Waterloo.  (Phi- 
lippoteau.) 

This  carefully  studied  and  most  skilful  battle  piece  is  but 
too  likely  to  be  overlooked  in  the  confused  rush  to  Miss  Thom- 
son’s more  attractive  composition.  And  of  all  in  the  Academy, 
this  is  the  picture  which  an  Englishman,  of  right  feeling,  would 
least  wish  to  overlook.  I remember  no  so  impartial  and 
faithful  representation  of  an  historical  battle.  I know  no  war- 
painting by  the  artists  of  any  great  race,  however  modest,  in 
which  the  object  has  not  hitherto  been  definitely — self-lauda- 
tion. But  here  is  a piece  of  true  war-history,  of  which  it  is 
not  possible  to  say,  by  observance  of  any  traceable  bias, 
whether  a Frenchman  or  Englishman  painted  it.  Such  a 
picture  is  more  honorable  to  France  than  the  taking  of  the 
Malakoff. 

I never  approached  a picture  with  more  iniquitous  prejudice 
against  it,  than  I did  Miss  Thomson’s  ; partly  because  I have 
always  said  that  no  woman  could  paint ; and  secondly,  because 
I thought  what  the  public  made  such  a fuss  about,  mud  be 
good  for  nothing. 

But  it  is  Amazon’s  work,  this  ; no  doubt  of  it,  and  the  first 
fine  pre-Eaphaelite  * picture  of  battle  we  have  had; — profoundly 
interesting  ; and  showing  all  manner  of  illustrative  and  realis- 
tic faculty.  Of  course,  all  that  need  be  said  of  it,  on  this  side, 
must  have  been  said  twenty  times  over  in  the  journals ; and  it 
remains  only  for  me  to  make  my  tardy  genuflection,  on  the 
trampled  corn,  before  this  Pallas  of  Pall  Mall ; — and  to  mur- 
mur my  poor  words  of  warning  to  her,  that  she  remember,  in 
her  day  of  triumph,  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Atlanta  was 
stayed  and  Camilla  slain. 

Camilla-like  the  work  is—chiefly  in  its  refinement,  a quality 


* Miss  Thomson  may  perhaps  not  in  the  least  know  herself  for  a sister 
of  the  school.  But  the  entire  power  of  her  picture,  as  of  her  own  mind, 
depends  first  on  her  resolution  to  paint  things  as  they  really  are,  or 
were;  and  not  as  they  might  he  poetically  fancied  to  he.  See  above, 
the  note  on  218,  p.  176. 


208  NOTES  ON  THE  PBINGIPxXL  PICTURES 


I bad  not  in  the  least  expected,  for  the  cleverest  women 
almost  always  show  their  weakness  in  endeavors  to  be 
dashing.  But  actually,  here,  what  I suppose  few  people  would 
think  of  looking  at,  the  sky,  is  the  most  tenderly  j^ainted,  and 
with  the  truest  outlines  of  cloud,  of  all  in  the  exhibition ; — and 
the  terrific  piece  of  gallant  wrath  and  ruin  on  the  extreme 
right,  where  the  cuirassier  is  catching  round  the  neck  of  his 
horse  as  he  falls,  and  the  convulsed  fallen  horse  just  seen 
through  the  smoke  below — is  wrought,  through  all  the  truth 
of  its  frantic  passion,  with  gradations  of  color  and  shade 
which  I have  not  seen  the  like  of  since  Turner’s  death. 

I place  these  two  paintings  under  the  head  of  “Policy,”  be- 
cause it  seems  to  me  that,  especially  before  the  Quatrebras, 
one  might  wisely  consider  with  IMr.  Carlyle,  and  with  one’s  self, 
what  was  the  “ net  upshot  ” and  meaning  of  our  modern  form 
of  the  industry  of  war.  Why  should  these  wild  and  well- 
meaning  young  Irish  lads  have  been  brought,  at  great  expense, 
all  the  way  to  Four  Arms,  merely  to  knock  equally  wild  and 
well-meaning  young  French  lads  out  of  their  saddles  into 
their  graves  ; and  take  delight  in  doing  so  ? And  why  should 
the  English  and  French  squires  at  the  head  of  their  regiments, 
have,  practically,  no  other  object  in  life  than  deceiving  these 
poor  boys,  and  an  infinite  mob  besides  of  such  others,  to  their 
destruction  ? 

Think  of  it.  Suppose  this  picture,  as  well  as  the  one  I was 
so  happy  in  praising  of  Mr.  Collinson’s,  had  been  called — as  it 
also,  quite  properly,  might  have  been — “ Sunday  Afternoon” 
(only  dating  “June  18th,  1815”).  Suppose  the  two  had  been 
hung  side  by  side.  And,  to  complete  our  materials  for  medi- 
tation, suppose  Mr.  Nicol’s  “The  Sabbath  Day”  (1159) — 
which  I observed  the  Daily  Telegraph  called  an  exquisitely 
comic  picture,  but  which  I imagine  Mr.  Nicol  meant  for  a se- 
rious one — representing  the  conscientious  Scottish  mountain- 
matron  setting  out  for  the  place  where  she  may  receive  her 
cake  of  spiritual  oatmeal,  baken  on  the  coals  of  Presbyterian 
zeal ; suppose,  I say,  this  ideal  of  Scottish  Sabbath  occu- 
pation placed  beside  M.  Philippoteau’s  admirable  painting  of 
the  Highland  regiment  at  evening  missionary  service,  in  that 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


209 


sweet  and  fruitful  foreign  land  ; while  Miss  Thomson  enables 
us  also,  thus  meditating  in  our  fields  at  eventide,  to  consider, 
if  not  the  Lilies,  at  least  the  Poppies  of  them  ; and  to  under- 
stand how  in  this  manner  of  friction  of  ears  of  corn — by  his 
bent  knees  instead  of  his  fingers — the  modern  Christian  shows 
that  the  Sabbatli  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the  Sab- 
bath? 

“ Well — and  if  this  were  so  done, — should  we  not  feel  that 
the  peace  of  the  cottage,  and  the  honor  of  the  mountain-side, 
were  guarded  and  won  for  them  by  that  mighty  Evening  Ser- 
vice, with  the  thunder  of  its  funeral  march  rolled  deep  among 
the  purple  clouds  ? ” 

No  ! my  soldier  friends  ; no ; do  not  think  it.  They  were, 
and  are,  guarded  and  won  by  silent  virtues  of  the  hearth  and 
the  rock,  whicli  must  endure  until  the  time  vdien  the  prayer 
we  pray  in  our  every  Sabbath  Litany,  to  be  delivered  from 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death — shall  have  been  offered 
with  sincere  hearts,  fervently ; and  so  found  its  way  at  last 
to  the  audience  of  Heaven. 


NOTE  TO  PICTURE  518. 

“ The  rarity  and  grandeur  of  his  character  being  that  he  was  a Greek 
in  ideas  and  a Roman  in  action  ; who  really  did,  and  abstained,  strictly 
to  ideal,  in  a time  when  everybody  else  was  sadly  fallen  from  his  ideal. 

'■‘In  353  he  is  made  Caesar  (Constantius  having  no  sons,  and  he 
being  last  of  his  race);  and  from  that  to  Constantius’  death  in  361  he 
has  to  fight  the  Franks  and  Alemaniii.  During  the  last  few  years  of 
this  time  I find  he  lived  mostly  at  Paris — that  he  fortified  the  ancient 
Lutetia  (ITle  de  la  Cite),  built  the  Thermae  Juliani,  the  remains  of  which, 
(Thermes  de  Julien)  are  still  visible  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  between 
Palais  de  Cluny  and  Ecole  de  Mcdecine.  Also,  in  a scarcity  of  corn 
from  inroads  of  the  Germans,  he  got  a great  supply  of  corn  from  Eng- 
land (calculated  at  120,000  quarters  once) — and  fed  people  all  along 

the  Rhine  from  Bingen  to  Cologne.  He  says  (Epist.  ii. ) he  was  a Christian 
up  to  his  twentieth  year,  351  ; and  he  said  nothing  about  his  change  (in 
public)  till  361.  Then  he  felt  himself  the  successor  of  M.  Aurelius,  and 
seems  to  have  gone  to  work  in  his  determined,  clear-sighted  way.  But 
the  Pagans  seem  to  have  been  surprised  at  his  faith  as  much  as  the 
Christians  at  his  apostasy.  ” — Rev.  R.  St.  J.  Tyrwuitt. 

14 


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NOTES  BY  MR.  RUSKIN 

ON 

SAMUEL  FLOUT 

AND 

WILLIAM  HUNT, 

ILLUSTHATED  BY 

A LOAN  COLLECTION  OF  DEAWINGS 

EXHIBITED  AT 

THE  FINE  ART  SOCIETY'S  GALLERIES, 


148  NEW  BOND  STREET, 
1879**80. 


, , K ^ Xf  , Mi  X Xi  1 Or 


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o-:iaMT^  c?iofi  xny, 


■V^  ; 


i 


NOTE. 

I HAVE  to  thank  the  kind  friends  who  have  contributed 
drawings.  I regret  that  very  many  of  them  have  had  to  be 
returned,  simply  because  I had  already  to  my  hand  examples 
which  sufficiently  illustrated  the  lessons  I wished  to  teach  in 
putting  together  these  notes. 


J.  Ruskin. 


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1 


PREFACE. 


It  has  been  only  in  compliance  with  the  often  and  earnestly 
urged  request  of  my  friend  Mr.  Marcus  Huish,  that  I have 
thrown  the  following  notes  together,  on  the  works  of  two 
artists  belonging  to  a time  wdth  which  nearly  all  associations 
are  now  ended  in  the  mind  of  general  society  ; and  of  which 
my  own  memories,  it  seemed  to  me,  could  give  little  pleasure 
(even  if  I succeeded  in  rendering  them  intelligible)  to  a public 
indulged  with  far  more  curious  arts,  and  eager  for  otherwise 
poignant  interests  than  those  which  seemed  admirable, — • 
though  not  pretending  to  greatness,  and  were  felt  to  be  delight- 
ful,— though  not  provoking  enthusiasm,  in  the  quiet  and 
little  diverted  lives  of  the  English  middle  classes,  “ sixtj^  years 
since.” 

It  is  especially  to  be  remembered  that  drawings  of  this  sim- 
ple character  were  made  for  the  same  middle  classes,  exclu- 
sively : and  even  for  the  second  order  of  the  middle  classes, 
more  accurately  expressed  by  the  term  bourgeoisie.”  The 
great  people  always  bought  Canaletto,  not  Prout,  and  Van 
Huysum,  not  Hunt.  There  was  indeed  no  quality  in  the 
bright  little  water-colors,  which  could  look  other  than  pert 
in  ghostly  corridors,  and  petty  in  halls  of  state  ; but  they 
gave  an  unquestionable  tone  of  liberal-mindedness  to  a subur- 
ban villa,  and  w'ere  the  cheerfullest  possible  decorations  for  a 
moderate-sized  breakfast  parlor,  opening  on  a nicely  mown 
lawn.  Their  liveliness  even  rose,  on  occasion,  to  the  charity 
of  beautifjdng  the  narrow  chambers  of  those  whom  business 
or  fixed  habit  still  retained  in  the  obscurity  of  London  itself ; 
and  I remember  with  peculiar  respect  the  pride  of  a benevo- 
lent physician,  who  never  would  exchange  his  neighborhood 


216 


PREFACE. 


to  the  poor  of  St.  Giles’s  for  the  lucrative  lustre  of  a West 
End  Square,  in  wreathing  his  tiny  little  front  drawing-room 
with  Hunt’s  loveliest  apple-blossom,  and  taking  the  patients 
for  whom  he  had  prescribed  fresh  air,  the  next  instant  on  a 
little  visit  to  the  country. 

Nor  was  this  adaptation  to  the  tastes  and  circumstances  of 
the  London  citizen,  a constrained  or  obsequious  compliance 
on  the  part  of  the  kindly  artists.  They  were  themselves,  in 
mind,  as  in  habits  of  life,  completely  a part  of  the  character- 
istic metropolitan  population  whom  an  occasional  visit  to  the 
Continent  always  thrilled  with  surprise  on  finding  themselves 
again  among  persons  who  familiarly  spoke  French  ; and  whose 
summer  holidays,  though  more  customaiy,  amused  them  nev- 
ertheless with  the  adventure,  and  beguiled  them  with  the  pas- 
toral charm,  of  an  uninterrupted  picnic.  Mr.  Prout  lived  at 
Brixton,  just  at  the  rural  extremity  of  Cold  Harbor  Lane, 
where  the  spire  of  Brixton  church,  the  principal  architectural 
ornament  of  the  neighborhood,  could  not  but  greatly  exalt, 
by  comparison,  the  impressions  received  from  that  of  Stras- 
burg  Cathedral,  or  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Bruxelles  ; and  Mr. 
Hunt,  though  often  in  the  spring  and  summer  luxuriating  in 
country  lodgings,  was  only  properly  at  home  in  the  Hamp- 
stead road,"*"  and  never  painted  a cluster  of  nuts  without  some 
expression,  visible  enough  by  the  manner  of  their  presenta- 
tion, of  the  pleasure  it  was  to  him  to  see  them  in  the  shell, 
instead  of  in  a bag  at  the  greengrocer’s. 

The  lightly  rippled  level  of  this  civic  life  lay,  as  will  be 
easily  imagined,  far  beneath  the  distractions,  while  it  main- 
tained itself  meekly,  yet  severely,  independent  of  the  advan- 
tages held  out  by  the  social  system  of  what  is  most  reverently 
called  “ Town.”  Neither  the  disposition,  the  health,  nor  the 
means  of  either  artist  admitted  of  their  spending  their  even- 
ings, in  general,  elsewhere  than  by  their  own  firesides  ; nor 
could  a spring  levee  of  English  peeresses  and  foreign  ambas- 
sadors be  invited  by  the  modest  painter  whose  only  studio 
was  his  little  back-parlor,  commanding  a partial  view  of  the 


See  his  own  inscription,  with  London  in  capitals,  under  No, 


PREFACE. 


2ir 

scullery  steps  and  the  water-buti  The  fluctuations  of  moral 
and  msthetic  sentiment  in  the  public  mind  were  of  small 
moment  to  the  humble  colorist,  who  depended  only  on  the 
consistency  of  its  views  on  the  subject  of  early  strawberries  ; 
and  the  thrilling  subjects  presented  by  the  events  or  politics 
of  the  day  were  equally  indifferent  to  the  designer  who  in- 
vited interest  to  nothing  later  than  the  architecture  of  the 
15th  century.  Even  the  treasures  of  scientific  instruction, 
and  marvels  of  physical  discovery,  were  without  material  in- 
fluence on  the  tranquillity  of  the  tw^o  native  painters’  unedu- 
cated skill.  Prout  drew  every  lovely  street  in  Europe  with- 
out troubling  himself  to  learn  a single  rule  of  perspective  ; 
while  Hunt  painted  mossy  banks  for  five-and-twenty  years 
without  ever  caring  to  know  a Sphagnum  from  a Polypody, 
and  embossed  or  embowered  his  birds’  eggs  to  a perfection, 
which  Greek  connoisseurs  would  have  assured  us  the  mother 
had  unsuspectingly  sate  on — without  enlarging  his  range  of 
ornithological  experience  beyond  the  rarities  of  tomtit  and 
hedge-sparrow. 

This  uncomplaining  resignation  of  patronage,  and  unblush- 
ing blindness  to  instruction,  were  allied,  in  both  painters, 
with  a steady  consistency  in  technical  practice,  which,  from 
the  first,  and  to  the  last,  precluded  both  from  all  hope  of  pro- 
motion to  the  honors,  as  it  withheld  them  from  the  peril  of 
entanglement  in  the  rivalries,  connected  with  the  system 
of  exhibition  in  the  Poyal  Academy.  Mr.  Prout’s  method  of 
Avork  was  entirely  founded  on  the  quite  elementary  qualities 
of  Avhite  paper  and  black  Cumberland  lead  ; and  expressly 
terminated  Avithin  the  narroAv  range  of  prismatic  effects  pro- 
ducible by  a brown  or  blue  outline,  with  a Avash  of  ochre  or 
cob:dt.  Mr.  Hunt’s  early  draAvings  depended  for  their  pecul- 
iar charm  on  the  most  open  and  simple  management  of  trans- 
parent color ; and  his  later  ones,  for  their  highest  attain- 
ments, on  the  flexibility  of  a pigment  which  yielded  to  the 
slightest  touch  and  softest  motion  of  a hand  always  more  sen- 
sitive than  firm.  The  skill  which  unceasing  practice,  Avithin 
limits  thus  modestly  unrelaxed,  and  with  facilities  of  instru- 
ment thus  openly  confessed,  enabled  each  draughtsman  in  his 


218 


PREFACE. 


special  path  to  attain,  was  exerted  with  a vividness  of  instinct 
somewhat  resembling  that  of  animals,  only  in  the  slightest 
degree  conscious  of  praiseworthiness,  but  animated  by  a 
healthy  complacency,  as  little  anxious  for  external  sympathy 
as  the  self-content  of  a bee  in  the  translucent  symmetry  of  its 
cell,  or  of  a chaffinch  in  the  silvery  tracery  of  her  nest — and 
uniting,  through  the  course  of  their  uneventful  and  active 
lives,  the  frankness  of  the  bird  with  the  industry  of  the  in- 
sect. 

In  all  these  points  of  view  the  drawings  to  which  I venture, 
not  without  hesitation,  to  call  the  passing  attention  of  the 
public,  can  claim  regard  only  as  examples  of  genius  both  nar- 
rowed and  depressed ; yet  healthy  enough  to  become  more 
elastic  under  depression  ; and  scintillant  enough  to  be  made 
more  vivid  by  contraction.  But  there  are  other  respects  in 
which  these  seemingly  unimportant  works  challenge  graver 
study ; and  illustrate  phases  of  our  own  national  mind — I 
might  perhaps  say,  even  of  national  civilization — which  coin- 
cide wuth  many  curious  changes  in  social  feelings  ; and  may 
lead  to  results  not  easily  calculable  in  social  happiness. 

If  the  reader  has  any  familiarity  with  the  galleries  of  paint- 
ing in  the  great  cities  of  Europe,  he  cannot  but  retain  a 
clear,  though  somewhat  monotonously  calm,  impression  of  the 
character  of  those  polished  flower-pieces,  or  still-life  pieces, 
which  occupy  subordinate  corners  in  their  smaller  rooms  ; 
and  invite  to  moments  of  repose,  or  frivolity,  the  attention 
and  imagination  which  have  been  wearied  in  admiring  the  at- 
titudes of  heroism,  and  sympathizing  with  the  sentiments  of 
piety.  Recalling  to  his  memory  the  brightest  examples  of 
these  which  his  experience  can  supply,  he  will  find  that  all 
the  older  ones  agree — if  flower-pieces — in  a certain  courtli- 
ness and  formality  of  arrangement,  implying  that  the  highest 
honors  which  flowers  can  attain  are  in  being  wreathed  into 
grace  of  garlands,  or  assembled  in  variegation  of  bouquets, 
for  the  decoration  of  beauty,  or  flattery  of  noblesse.  If  fruit 
or  still-life  pieces,  they  agree  no  less  distinctly  in  directness 
of  reference  to  the  supreme  hour  when  the  destiny  of  digni-  | 
fied  fruit  is  to  be  accomplished  in  a royal  dessert ; and  the  | 


PREFACE. 


210 


furred  and  feathered  life  of  hill  and  forest  may  bear  witness 
to  the  Wisdom  of  Providence  by  its  extinction  for  the  kitchen 
dresser. 

Irrespectively  of  these  ornamental  virtues,  and  culinary 
utilities,  the  painter  never  seems  to  perceive  any  conditions 
of  beauty  in  the  things  themselves,  wdiich  would  make  them 
worth  regard  for  their  own  sake:  nor,  even  in  these  appointed 
functions,  are  they  ever  supposed  to  be  worth  j^ainting,  un- 
less the  pleasures  they  procure  be  distinguished  as  those  of 
the  most  exalted  society.  No  artists  of  the  old  school  would 
ever  think  of  constructing  a subject  out  of  the  herbs  of  a cot- 
tage garden,  or  viands  of  a rural  feast.  Whatever  interest 
was  then  taken  in  the  life  of  the  lower  orders  involved  always 
some  reference  to  their  rudenesses  or  vices  ; and  rarely  exhib- 
its itself  in  any  other  expression  than  that  of  contempt  for 
their  employments,  and  reproach  to  their  recreation. 

In  all  such  particulars  the  feelings  shown  in  the  w^orks  of 
Hunt,  and  of  the  school  with  which  he  was  associated,  direct- 
ly reverse  those  of  the  preceding  age.  So  far  from  being 
garlanded  into  any  polite  symmetry,  his  primroses  fresh  from 
the  bank,  and  hawthorns  white  from  the  hedge,  confess  at 
once  their  artless  origin  in  tlie  village  lane— have  evidently 
been  gathered  only  at  the  choice,  and  thrown  dowm  at  the 
caprice,  of  the  farmer’s  children,  and  cheerfully  disclaim  all 
hope  of  ever  contributing  to  the  splendors  or  felicities  of  the 
great.  The  bloom  with  which  he  bedews  the  grape,  the 
frosted  gold  with  wdiich  he  frets  the  pine,  are  spent  chiefly 
to  show  what  a visible  grace  there  is  in  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
which  we  may  sometimes  feel  that  it  is  rude  to  touch,  and 
swinish  to  taste  ; and  the  tenderness  of  hand  and  thought 
that  soothe  the  rose-gray  breast  of  the  fallen  dove,  and  weave 
the  conch  of  moss  for  its  quiet  wings,  propose  no  congratula- 
lation  to  the  spectator  on  the  future  flavor  of  the  bird  in  a 
pie. 

It  is  a matter  of  extreme  difficulty,  but  of  no  less  interest, 
to  distinguish,  in  this  order  of  painting,  ^vhat  part  of  it  has 
its  origin  in  a plebeian — not  to  say  vulgar — simplicit}%  wdiich 
education  would  have  invested  with  a severer  charm  ; and 


220 


PREFACE. 


what  part  is  grounded  on  a real  sense  of  natural  beauty,  more 
pure  and  tender  than  could  be  discerned  amid  the  luxury  of 
courts,  or  stooped  to  by  the  pride  of  nobles. 

For  an  especial  instance,  the  drawing  of  the  interior,  No, 
174,  may  be  taken  as  a final  example  of  the  confidence  which 
the  painter  felt  in  his  power  of  giving  some  kind  of  interest 
to  the  most  homely  objects,  and  rendering  the  transitions  of 
ordinary  light  and  shade  impressive,  though  he  had  nothing 
more  sacred  to  illuminate  than  a lettuce,  and  nothing  more 
terrible  to  hide  than  a reaping-hook.  The  dim  light  from 
the  flint-glass  window,  and  the  general  disposition  and  scale 
of  the  objects  it  falls  on,  remind  me  sometimes,  however  un- 
reasonably, of  the  little  oratory  into  which  the  deeply-worn 
steps  ascend  from  the  Beauchamp  Chapel  at  Warwick.  But 
I know  perfectly  well,  and  partly  acknowledge  the  rightness  of 
his  judgment,  though  I cannot  analyze  it,  that  Hunt  would  no 
more  have  painted  that  knightly  interior  instead  of  this,  Muth 
helmets  lying  about  instead  of  saucepans,  and  glowing  herald- 
ries staying  the  light  instead  of  that  sea-green  lattice,  than 
he  would  have  gone  for  a walk  round  his  farm  in  a court 
dress. 

“ Plebeian- — not  to  say  vulgar  ” — choice  ; but  I fear  that 
even  “vulgar,”  with  full  emphasis,  must  be  said  sometimes 
in  the  end.  Not  that  a pipkin  of  cream  in  Devonshire  is  to 
be  thought  of  less  reverently  than  a vase  of  oil  or  canister  of 
bread  in  Attica  ; but  that  the  English  dairy-maid  in  her  way 
can  hold  her  own  with  the  Attic  Canephora,  and  the  peasant 
children  of  all  countries  where  leaves  are  green  and  waters 
clear,  possess  a grace  of  their  own  no  less  divine  than  that  of 
branch  and  wave.  And  it  is  to  bo  sorrowfully  confessed  that 
the  good  old  peach  and  apple  painter  was  curiously  insensible 
to  this  brighter  human  beauty,  and  though  he  could  scarcely 
pass  a cottage  door  around  his  Berkshire  home  without  seeing 
groups  of  which  Correggio  would  have  made  Cupids,  and 
Luini  cherubs,  turned  away  from  them  all,  to  watch  the  rough 
plough-boy  at  his  dinner,  or  enliven  a study  of  his  parlor- 
maid at  her  glass  (158),  with  the  elegance  of  a red  and  green 
pincushion. 


' PREFACE. 


221 


And  yet,  for  all  this,  the  subtle  sense  of  beauty  above  re- 
ferred to  was  always  in  his  mind,  and  may  be  proved,  and 
partly  illustrated,  by  notice  of  two  very  minute,  but  very 
constant,  differences  between  his  groups  of  still  life  and 
those  of  the  Dutch  painters.  In  every  flower-piece  of 
pretension,  by  the  masters  of  that  old  school,  two  accessory 
points  of  decoration  are  never  absent.  The  first  of  these  is 
the  dew-drop,  or  rain-drop — it  may  be  two  or  three  drops,  of 
either  size,  on  one  of  the  smoothest  petals  of  the  central 
flower.  This  is  always,  and  quite  openly,  done  to  show  how 
well  the  painter  can  do  it — not  in  the  least  with  any  enjoy- 
ment of  wetness  in  the  flower.  The  Dutchman  never  got  a 
wet  flower  to  paint  from.  He  had  his  exquisite  and  exem- 
plary poppy  or  tulip  brought  in  from  the  market  as  he  had 
occasion,  and  put  on  its  dew-drops  for  it  as  a lady’s  dressing- 
maid  puts  on  her  diamonds,  merely  for  state.  But  Hunt  saw 
the  flowers  in  his  little  garden  really  bright  in  the  baptismal 
dawn,  or  drenched  with  the  rain  of  noontide,  and  knew  that 
no  mortal  could  paint  any  real  likeness  of  that  heaven-shed 
light — and  never  once  attempted  it ; you  will  find  nothing 
in  any  of  his  pictures  merely  put  on  that  you  may  try  to 
wipe  it  off. 

But  there  was  a further  tour -cl enforce  demanded  of  the 
Dutch  workman,  without  which  all  his  happiest  preceding 
achievements  would  have  been  unacknowledged.  Not  only  a 
dew-drop,  but,  in  some  depth  of  bell,  or  cranny  of  leaf,  a 
bee,  or  a fly,  was  needful  for  the  complete  satisfaction  of  the 
connoisseur.  In  the  articulation  of  the  fly’s  legs,  or  neurog- 
raphy of  the  bee’s  wings,  the  Genius  of  painting  was  sup- 
posed to  signify  her  accepted  disciples  ; and  their  w^ork  went 
forth  to  the  European  world,  thenceforward,  without  ques- 
tion, as  worthy  of  its  age  and  country.  But,  without  recog- 
nizing in  myself,  or  desiring  to  encourage  in  my  scholars, 
any  unreasonable  dislike  or  dread  of  the  lower  orders  of 
living  ereatures,  I trust  that  the  reader  will  feel  with  me  that 
none  of  Mr.  Hunt’s  peaches  or  plums  would  be  made  daintier 
by  the  detection  on  them  of  even  the  most  cunningly  latent 
wasp,  or  cautiously  rampant  caterpillar ; and  will  accept, 


222 


PREFACE. 


•without  so  much  opposition  as  it  met  with  forty  years  ago, 
my  then  first  promulgated,  but  steadily  since  repeated  asser- 
tion, that  the  “ modern  painter  ” had  in  these  matters  less 
vanity  than  the  ancient  one,  and  better  taste. 

Another  interesting  evidence  of  Hunt’s  feeling  for  beauty 
is  to  be  found  in  the  unequal  distribution  of  his  pains  to 
different  parts  of  his  subject.  This  is  indeed,  one  of  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  our  modern  manner,  and  in  the 
abstract,  not  a laudable  one.  All  the  old  masters,  without 
exception,  complete  their  pictures  from  corner  to  corner  with 
a strictly  driven  level  of  deliberation  ; and  whether  it  be  a 
fold  of  drapery,  a blade  of  grass,  or  a wreath  of  cloud,  on 
which  they  are  subordinately  occupied,  the  pencil  moves 
at  the  same  tranquil  pace,  and  the  qualities  of  the  object  are 
rendered  with  the  same  fixed  attention.  In  this  habitual 
virtue,  the  dull  and  the  brilliant,  the  weak  and  the  mighty, 
concur  without  exception  ; holding  it  for  their  first  point  of 
honor  to  be  thorough  craftsmen  ; and  to  carry  on  the  so- 
licitude of  their  skill  throughout  the  piece,  as  an  armorer 
would  hammer  a corslet,  or  a housewife  knit  a stocking, 
leaving  no  edge  unternpered,  and  no  thread  unfastened. 
Modern  petulance  and  incompetence  lead,  on  the  contrary, 
to  the  flaunting  of  dexterity  in  one  place,  and  the  pretence 
of  ease  in  another — complete  some  portions  of  the  subject 
with  hypocritical  affection,  and  abandon  others  in  ostenta- 
tious contempt.  In  some  few  cases,  the  manner  arises  from 
a true  eagerness  of  imagination,  or  kindly  and  natural  desire 
for  sympathy  in  particular  likings  ; but  in  the  plurality  of 
instances,  the  habit  allies  itself  with  mistaken  principles  of 
art,  and  protects  impatience  and  w^ant  of  skill  under  the 
shield  of  philosophy. 

Few'  modern  pieces  of  oil-painting  are  more  accomplished 
or  deliberate  than  those  of  Meissonier : and  in  the  example 
placed  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  subject  w'as 
one  wdiich  he  certainly  would  not  have  treated,  consciously, 
with  prosaic  indignity  of  manner,  or  injurious  economy  of 
toil.  Yet  the  inequality  of  workmanship  has  depressed  what 
might  have  been  a most  sublime  picture  almost  to  the  level  of 


PREFACE, 


223 


a scenic  effect.  The  dress  of  the  Emperor  and  housings  of 
his  steed  are  wrought  with  the  masters  utmost  care : but  the 
landscape  is  nearly  unintelligible,  and  the  ground  a mere 
conventional  diaper  of  feeble  green  and  gray. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  height  to  which  the  picture 
would  have  risen  above  its  present  power,  if  a ruined  French 
village  had  been  represented  with  Flemish  precision  amidst 
the  autumnal  twilight  of  the  woods  ; and  the  ground  over 
which  the  wearied  horse  bears  his  dreaming  rider,  made 
lovely  with  its  native  wild-flowers. 

In  all  such  instances,  the  hold  which  a true  sense  of  beauty 
has  over  the  painter’s  mind  may  be  at  once  ascertained  by 
observing  the  nature  of  the  objects  to  which  his  pains  have 
been  devoted.  No  master  with  a fine  instinct  for  color  would 
spend  his  time  with  deliberate  preference  on  the  straps  and 
buckles  of  modern  horse-furniture,  rather  than  on  the  sur- 
rounding landscape  or  foreground  flowers,  though  in  a subject 
like  this  he  would  have  felt  it  right  to  finish  both,  to  the 
spectator’s  content,  if  not  to  his  amazement.  And  among  the 
numerous  rustic  scenes  by  Hunt  which  adorn  these  walls, 
though  all  are  painted  with  force  and  spirit,  none  are  recom- 
mended to  our  curiosity  by  an  elaborate  finish  given  to 
ungraceful  objects.  His  final  powers  are  only  employed  on 
motives  like  the  dead  doves  in  Nos.  139  and  145,  accompanied 
by  incidents  more  or  less  beautiful  and  seemlj^ 

I must  even  further  guard  my  last  sentence,  by  the  admis- 
sion that  the  means  by  which  his  utmost  intentions  of  finish  are 
accomplished,  can  never,  in  the  most  accurate  sense,  be  termed 
“elaborate.”  When  the  thing  to  be  represented  is  minute, 
the  touches  which  express  it  are  necessarily  minute  also  ; 
they  cannot  be  bold  on  the  edge  of  a nutshell,  nor  free 
within  the  sphere  of  a bird’s  nest  ; but  they  are  always  frank 
and  clear,  to  a degree  which  may  seem  not  only  imperfect, 
but  even  harsh  or  offensive,  to  eyes  trained  in  more  tender  or 
more  formal  schools.  This  broken  execution  by  detached 
and  sharply  defined  touches  became  indeed,  in  process  of 
years,  a manner  in  which  the  painter  somewliat  too  visibly 
indulged,  or  prided  himself  ; but  it  had  its  origin  and  author- 


224 


PREFACE. 


ity  in  the  care  with  which  he  followed  the  varieties  of  color 
in  the  shadow,  no  less  than  in  the  lights,  of  even  the  smallest 
objects.  It  is  easy  to  obtain  smoothness  and  unity  of  grada- 
tion when  working  with  a single  tint,  but  if  all  accidents  of 
local  color  and  all  differences  of  hue  between  direct  and  re- 
flected light  are  to  be  rendered  with  absolute  purity,  some 
breaking  of  the  texture  becomes  inevitable.  In  many  cases, 
also,  of  the  most  desirable  colors,  no  pigments  mixed  on  the 
palette,  but  only  interlaced  touches  of  pure  tints  on  the  pa- 
per, will  attain  the  required  effect.  The  indefinable  primrose 
color,  for  instance,  of  the  glazed  porringer  in  the  foreground 
of  No.  174  could  not  possibly  have  been  given  with  a mixed 
tint.  The  breaking  of  gray  through  gold  by  which  it  has 
been  reached  is  one  of  the  prettiest  pieces  of  work  to  be  seen 
in  these  rooms  ; it  exhibits  the  utmost  skill  of  the  artist,  and 
is  an  adequate  justification  of  his  usual  manner. 

Among  the  earliest  statements  of  principles  of  art  made  in 
the  “ Stones  of  Venice,”  one  of  those  chiefly  fortunate  in  obtain- 
ing credit  with  my  readers  was  the  course  of  argument  urg- 
ing frankness  in  the  confession  of  the  special  means  by  which 
an}^  artistic  result  has  been  obtained,  and  of  the  limitations 
which  these  appointed  instruments,  and  the  laws  proper  to 
the  use  of  them,  set  to  its  scope.  Thus  the  threads  in  tapes- 
liy,  the  tesserge  in  mosaic,  the  joints  of  the  stones  in  masonry, 
and  the  movements  of  the  pencil  in  painting,  are  shown  with- 
out hesitation  by  the  greatest  masters  in  those  arts,  and  often 
enforced  and  accented  by  the  most  ingenious  ; while  endeavors 
to  conceal  them — as  to  make  needlework  look  like  pencilling, 
or  efface,  in  painting,  the  rugged  freedom  or  joyful  lightness 
of  its  handiwork  into  the  deceptive  image  of  a natural  surface, 
are,  without  any  exception,  signs  of  declining  intelligence, 
and  benumbed  or  misguided  feelings. 

I therefore  esteem  Hunt’s  work  all  the  more  exemplary  in 
acknowledging  without  disguise  the  restrictions  imposed  on 
the  use  of  water-color  as  a medium  for  vigorously  realistic 
effects  : and  I have  placed  pieces  of  it  in  my  Oxford  school  as 
standards  of  imitative  (as  distinguished  from  decorative) 
color,  in  the  rightness  and  usefulness  of  which  I have  every 


PREFACE. 


225 


day  more  confirmed  trust.  I am  aware  of  no  other  pieces  of 
art,  in  modern  days,  at  once  so  sincere  and  so  accomplished  : 
only  let  it  be  noted  that  I use  the  term  “ sincere  ”in  this  case, 
not  as  imputing  culpable  fallacy  to  pictures  of  more  imagin- 
ative power,  but  only  as  implying  the  unbiassed  directness  of 
aim  at  the  realization  of  very  simple  facts,  which  is  often 
impossible  to  the  passions,  or  inconsistent  with  the  plans,  of 
greater  designers. 

In  more  cautiously  guarded  terms  of  praise,  and  with  far 
less  general  proposal  of  their  peculiar  qualities  for  imitation, 
I have  }xt,  both  in  my  earlier  books,  and  in  recent  lectures  at 
Oxford,  spoken  of  the  pencil  sketches  of  Prout  with  a rever- 
ence and  enthusiasm  which  it  is  my  chief  personal  object  in 
the  present^  exhibition  to  justify,  or  at  least  to  explain  ; so 
that  future  readers  may  not  be  offended,  as  I have  known 
some  former  ones  to  be,  by  expressions  which  seemed  to  them 
incompatible  with  the  general  tenor  of  my  teaching. 

It  is  quite  true  that  my  feelings  toward  this  painter  are 
much  founded  on,  or  at  least  colored  by,  early  associations  ; 
but  I have  never  found  the  memories  of  my  childhood  beguile 
me  into  any  undue  admiration  of  the  architecture  in  Billiter 
Street  or  Brunswick  Square  ; and  I believe  the  characters 
which  first  delighted  me  in  the  drawings  of  this — in  his  path 
unrivalled — artist,  deserve  the  best  attention  and  illustration 
of  which  in  my  advanced  years  I am  capable. 

The  little  drawing,  No.  95,  bought,  I believe,  by  my  grand- 
father, hung  in  the  corner  of  our  little  dining  parlor  at  Herne 
Hill  as  early  as  I can  remember  ; and  had  a most  fateful  and 
continual  power  over  my  childish  mind.  Men  are  made  what 
they  finally  become,  only  by  the  external  accidents  which  are 
in  harmony  with  their  inner  nature.  I was  not  made  a stu- 
dent of  Gothic  merely  because  this  little  drawing  of  Front’s 
was  the  first  I knew  ; but  the  hereditary  love  of  antiquity, 
and  thirst  for  country  life,  which  were  as  natural  to  me  as  a 
little  jackdaw’s  taste  for  steeples,  or  dabchick’s  for  reeds, 
were  directed  and  tempered  in  a very  definite  way  by  the 
qualities  of  this  single  and  simple  drawing. 

In  the  first  place,  it  taught  me  generally  to  like  ruggedness  ; 

15 


226 


PREFACE. 


and  the  conditions  of  joint  in  moulding,  and  fitting  of  stones 
in  walls  which  were  most  weather-worn,  and  like  the  gray 
dykes  of  a Cumberland  hill-side.  This  predilection — passion, 
I might  more  truly  call  it — holds  me  yet  so  strongly,  that  I 
can  never  quite  justly  conceive  the  satisfaction  of  the  original 
builders,  even  of  the  most  delicate  edifice,  in  seeing  its  come- 
ly stones  .well  set  together.  Giotto’s  tower,  and  the  subtly 
Cyclopean  walls  of  early  Yerona,  have  indeed  chastised  the 
prejudice  out  of  me,  so  far  as  regards  work  in  marble  enriched 
with  mosaic  and  pure  sculpture  ; but  I had  almost  rather  see 
Furness  or  Fountains  Abbey  strewed  in  grass-grown  heaps 
by  their  brooksides,  than  in  the  first  glow  and  close  setting 
of  their  fresh-hewn  sandstone.  "Whatever  is  rationally  justi- 
fiable in  this  feeling,  so  far  as  it  is  dependent  on  just  rever- 
ence for  the  signs  of  antiquity,  and  may  therefore  be  trusted 
to,  as  existing  generally  in  the  minds  of  persons  of  thought- 
ful temperament,  was  enough  explained,  long  ago,  in  the  pas- 
sages of  the  “Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,”  which,  the  book 
not  being  now  generally  accessible,  I reprint  in  Appendix  I.  ; 
but  openness  of  joints  and  roughness  of  masonry  are  not 
exclusively  signs  of  age  or  decay  in  buildings : and  I did  not  at 
that  time  enough  insist  on  the  propriety,  and  even  the  grace, 
of  such  forms  of  literal  “ rustication  ” * as  are  compelled 
by  coarseness  of  materials,  and  plainness  of  builders,  when 
proper  regard  is  had  to  economy,  and  just  honor  rendered  to 
provincial  custom  and  local  handicraft.  These  are  now  so 
little  considered  that  the  chief  difficulties  I have  had  in  the 
minute  architectural  efforts  possible  at  Brantwood  have  been 
to  persuade  my  Coniston  builder  into  satisfaction  with  Conis- 
ton  slate  ; and  retention  of  Coniston  manners  in  dressing — or 
rather,  leaving  undressed — its  primitively  fractured  edges.  If 
I ever  left  him  alone  for  a day,  some  corner  stone  was  sure  to 
be  sent  for  from  Bath  or  Portland,  and  the  ledges  I had  left 

* All  the  forms  of  massive  foundation,  of  which  the  aspect,  in  build- 
ings of  pretension,  has  been  described  by  this  word,  took  their  origin 
from  the  palaces  in  Florence,  whose  foundations  were  laid  with  nn- 
chiselled  blocks  of  the  gray  gritstone  of  Fesole,  and  looked  like  a piece 
of  its  crags. 


PREFACE. 


227 


to  invite  stonecrop  and  swallows,  trimmed  away  in  the  ad- 
vanced style  of  the  railway  station  at  Carnforth. 

There  is  more,  however,  to  be  noted  in  this  little  old-fash- 
ioned painting,  than  mere  delight  in  weedy  eaves  and  mortar- 
less walls.  Pre-eminently  its  repose  in  such  placid  subjects  of 
thought  as  the  cottage,  and  its  neighboring  wood,  contain  for 
an  easily-pleased  observer,  without  the  least  recommendation 
of  them  by  graceful  incident,  or  plausible  story.  If  we  can  be 
content  with  sunshine  on  our  old  brown  roof,  and  the  sober 
green  of  a commonplace  English  wood,  protected  by  a still 
more  commonplace  tarred  paling,  and  allowing  the  fancy  there- 
fore not  to  expatiate  even  so  far  as  the  hope  of  a walk  in  it — it 
is  well  ; — and  if  not, — poor  Prouthas  no  more  to  offer  us,  and 
V\^ill  not  even  concede  the  hope  that  one  of  those  diagouall}'- 
dressed  children  may  be  the  least  pretty,  or  provoke  us,  by  the 
gleam  of  a ribbon,  or  quaintness  of  a toy,  into  asking  so  much 
as  what  the  itinerant  pedler  has  in  his  basket. 

I was  waiting  for  a train  the  other  day  at  Dover,  and  in  an 
old-fashioned  print-shop  on  the  hill  up  to  the  Priory  station, 
saw  a piece  of  as  old-fashioned  picture-making,  elaborately  en- 
graved, and  of  curious  interest  to  me,  at  the  moment,  with 
reference  to  my  present  essa3^  It  belonged  to  the  dull  British 
school  wdiich  was  founded  on  conscientious  following  of  the 
miniature  methods  and  crowded  incidents  of  Dutch  painting  ; 
and  always  dutifully  proposed  to  give  the  spectator  as  much 
entertainment  as  could  be  collected  into  the  given  space  of  can- 
vas. There  was  an  ideal  village  street  to  begin  with,  the  first 
cottage  gable  at  the  corner  having  more  painting  (and  very 
good  and  pretty  painting)  spent  on  the  mere  thatch  of  it,  than 
there  is  in  the  entire  Prout  drawing  under  our  notice.  Be- 
yond the  laborious  gable  came  some  delicately-branched  trees  ; 
and  then  the  village  street,  in  and  out,  half-a-mile  long,  witli 
shops,  and  signs,  and  what  not ; and  then  the  orthodox  church- 
steeple,  and  then  more  trees,  and  then  a sky  with  rolling  white 
clouds  after  Wouvermaus  ; — but  all  this,  though  the  collected 
quantity  of  it  would  have  made  half-a-dozen  country  villages, 
if  well  pulled  out,  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  subject. 
Gable,  street,  church,  rookery,  and  sky,  were  all,  in  the  paint- 


228 


PEE  FA  CE. 


er’s  mind,  too  thin  and  spare  entertainment.  So  out  of  the 
gable-window  looked  a frightened  old  woman — out  of  the  cot- 
tage-door rushed  an  angry  old  man  ; over  the  garden  palings 
tumbled  two  evil-minded  boys, — after  the  evil-minded  boys 
rushed  an  indignantly-minded  dog  ; and  in  the  centre  of  the 
foreground,  cynosure  of  the  composition,  were,  a couple  of 
fighting-cocks, — one  fallen,  the  other  crowing  for  conquest ; — 
highly  finished,  both,  from  wattle  to  spur.  And  the  absolute 
pictorial  value  of  the  whole, — church  and  sky — village  and 
startled  inhabitants — vagabond  boys — vindictive  dog — and 
victorious  bird  (the  title  of  the  picture  being  “ The  Moment  of 
Victory  ”) — the  intrinsic  value  of  the  whole,  I say,  being — not 
the  twentieth  part  of  a Hunt’s  five-minute  sketch  of  one  cock’s 
feather. 

And  yet  it  w^as  all  prettil}"  painted, — as  I said  ; and  possessed 
every  conceivable  quality  that  can  be  taught  in  a school,  or 
bought  for  money  : and  the  artist  who  did  it  had  probably  in 
private  life,  a fair  average  quantity  of  sense  and  feeling,  but 
had  left  both  out  of  his  picture,  in  order  to  imitate  what  he 
had  been  taught  was  fine,  and  produce  what  he  expected  would 
pay. 

Take  another  instance,  more  curious,  and  nearer  to  matters 
in  hand.  The  little  photograpli.  No.  117,  was  made  in  1858 
(by  my  own  setting  of  the  camera),  in  the  court-yard  of  one  of 
the  prettiest  yet  remaining  fragments  of  15th  century  domes- 
tic buildings  in  Abbeville.  The  natural  vine-leaves  consent  in 
grace  and  glow  with  the  life  of  the  old  wood  carving ; and 
though  the  modern  white  porcelain  image  ill  replaces  the  re- 
volution-deposed Madonna,  and  only  pedestals  of  saints,  and 
canopies,  are  left  on  the  propping  beams  of  the  gateway  ; and 
though  the  cask,  and  cooper’s  tools,  and  gardener’s  spade  and 
ladder  are  little  in  accord  with  what  was  once  stately  in  the 
gate,  and  graceful  in  the  winding  stair, — the  declining  shadows 
of  the  past  mingle  with  the  hardship  of  the  present  day  in  no 
unkindly  sadness  ; and  the  little  angle  of  courtyard,  if  tenderly 
painted  in  the  depression  of  its  fate,  has  enough  still  to  occupy 
as  much  of  our  best  thought  as  may  be  modestly  claimed  for 
his  picture  by  any  master  not  of  the  highest  order. 


PREFACE. 


229 


But  these  motives  of  wise  and  gentle  feeling  would  not  ap- 
peal to  the  public  mind  in  competitive  exhibition.  Such  ef- 
forts as  are  made  by  our  own  landscapists  to  keep  record  of 
any  fast  vanishing  scenes  of  the  kind,  are  scarcely  with  good- 
will accepted  even  in  our  minor  art  galleries  : and  leave  to  share 
in  tlie  lustre  of  the  Parisian  “ Salon  de  1873  ” could  only  be 
hoped  for  by  the  author  of  the  composition  from  which  the 
photograph,  No.  118,  is  taken,  on  condition  of  his  giving 
pungency  to  the  feeble  savor  of  architectural  study  by  a con- 
diment of  love,  assassination,  and  despair. 

It  will  not,  I trust,  be  supposed  that  in  anything  I have  said, 
or  may  presently  further  say,  I have  the  smallest  intention  of 
diminishing  the  praise  of  nobly  dramatic  or  pathetic  pictures. 
The  best  years  of  my  life  have  been  spent  in  the  endeavor  to 
illustrate  the  neglected  greatest  of  these,  in  Venice,  Milan,  and 
Home  : while  my  last  and  most  deliberate  writings  have  lost 
much  of  their  influence  with  the  public  by  disagreeably  insist- 
ing that  the  duty  of  a great  painter  was  rather  to  improve 
them,  than  amuse.  But  it  remains  always  a sure  elementary 
principle  that  interest  in  the  story  of  pictures  does  not  in  the 
least  signify  a relative  interest  in  the  art  of  painting,  or  in  the 
continual  beauty  and  calm  virtue  of  nature  : and  that  the 
■wholesomest  manner  in  which  the  intelligence  of  young  people 
can  be  developed  (I  may  say,  even,  the  intelligence  of  modest 
old  people  cultivated),  in  matters  of  this  kind,  is  by  induc- 
ing them  accurately  to  understand  what  painting  is  as  mere 
painting,  and  music  as  mere  music,  before  they  are  ]ed  into 
further  question  of  the  uses  of  either,  in  policy,  morals,  or 
religion. 

And  I cannot  but  recollect  with  feelings  of  considerable  re- 
freshment, in  these  days  of  the  deep,  the  lofty,  and  the  mys- 
terious, what  a simple  company  of  connoisseurs  we  were,  who 
crowded  into  happy  meeting,  on  the  first  Mondays  in  Mays  of 
long  ago,  in  the  bright  large  room  of  the  old  Water-color 
Society  ; and  discussed,  with  holiday  gayety,  the  unimposing 
merits  of  the  favorites,  from  whose  pencils  w^e  knew  precisely 
what  to  expect,  and  by  whom  w’e  were  never  either  disap- 
pointed or  surprised.  Copley  Fielding  used  to  paint  fishing- 


230 


PREFACE, 


bofits  for  ns,  m a fresh  breeze,  “ Off  Dover,”  Off  Ramsgate,” 

Off  the  Needles,” — off  everywhere  on  the  .south  coast  where 
anybody  had  been  last  autumn  ; but  we  were  always  kept  pleas- 
antly ill  sight  of  land,  and  never  saw  so  much  as  a gun  fired  in 
distress.  Mr.  Robson  would  occasionally  paint  a Bard,  on  a 
lieathery  crag*  in  Wales  ; or — it  might  be — a Lady  of  the  Lake 
on  a similar  piece  of  Scottish  foreground, — “ Benvenue  in  the 
distance.”  A little  fighting',  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First, 
was  permitted  to  Mr.  Cattermole  ; and  Mr.  Cristall  would  some- 
times invite  virtuous  sympathy  to  attend  the  meeting  of  two 
lovers  at  a Wishing  gate  or  a Holy  well.  But  the  furthest 
flights  even  of  these  poetical  members  of  the  Society  were 
seldom  beyond  the  confines  of  the  British  Islands  ; the  vague 
dominions  of  the  air,  and  vasty  ones  of  the  deep,  were  held  to 
be  practically  unvoyageable  by  our  un-Dsedal  pinions,  and  on 
the  safe  level  of  our  native  soil,  the  sturdy  statistics  of  Mr.  Do 
Wint,  and  blunt  pastorals  of  Mr.  Cox,  restrained  within  the 
limits  of  probability  and  sobriety,  alike  the  fancy  of  the  idle, 
and  the  ambition  of  the  vain. 

It  became,  however,  by  common  and  tacit  consent,  Mr. 
Front’s  privilege,  and  it  remained  his  privilege  exclusively,  to' 
introduce  foreign  elements  of  romance  and  amazement  into 
this — perhaps  slightly  fenny — atmosphere,  of  English  common 
sense.  In  contrast  with  our  Midland  locks  and  barges,  his 
“ On  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice,”  was  an  Arabian  enchantment ; 
among  the  mildly  elegiac  country  churchyards  of  Llangollen 
or  Stoke  Pogis,  his  “ Sepulchral  Monuments  at  Verona  ” were 
Shakespearian  tragedy  ; and  to  us  who  had  just  come  into  the 
room  out  of  Finsbury  or  Mincing  Lane,  his  “ Street  in  Nurem- 
burg  ” was  a German  fairy  tale.  But  we  none  of  us  recognized, 
then  (and  I know  not  how  far  any  of  us  recognize  3’et),  that 
these  feelings  of  ours  were  dependent  on  the  mediation  of  a 
genius  as  earnest  as  it  was  humble,  doing  work  not  in  its  es- 
sence romantic  at  all ; but,  on  the  contrary,  the  only  quite  use- 
ful, faithful,  and  evermore  serviceable  work  that  the  Society— 
by  hand  of  any  of  its  members — had  ever  done,  or  could  ever, 
in  that  phase  of  its  existence,  do  : containing,  moreover,  a 
statement  of  certain  social  facts  only  to  be  gathered,  and  image 


PREFACE. 


231 


of  certain  pathetic  beauties  only  to  be  seen,  at  that  particular 
moment  in  the  history  of  (what  we  are  pleased  to  call)  civiliza- 
tion. 

“ As  earnest,”  I repeat, — ‘ ‘ as  it  was  humble.”  The  drawings 
actually  shown  on  the  Exhibition  walls  gave  no  sufficient  clue 
to  Prout’s  real  character,  and  no  intimation  whatever  of  his 
pauseless  industry.  He  differed,  in  these  unguessed  methods 
of  toil,  wholly  from  the  other  members  of  the  Society.  De 
Wint’s  morning  and  afternoon  sketches  from  nature,  with  a 
few  solidifying  touches,  were  at  once  ready  for  their  frames. 
Fielding’s  misty  downs  and  dancing  seas  were  softened  into 
their  distances  of  azure,  and  swept  into  their  hollows  of  foam, 
at  his  ease,  in  his  study,  with  conventional  ability,  and 
lightly  burdened  memoiy.  Hunt’s  models  lay  on  the  little 
table  at  his  side  all  day  ; or  stood  as  long  as  he  liked  by  the 
barn-door,  for  a penny.  But  Prout’s  had  to  be  far  sought,  and 
with  difficulty  detailed  and  secured  : the  figures  gliding  on  the 
causeway  or  mingling  in  the  market-place,  stayed  not  his  leis- 
ure ; and  his  drawings  prepared  for  the  Water-color  room 
were  usually  no  more  than  mechanical  abstracts,  made  abso- 
lutel}"  for  support  of  his  household,  from  the  really  vivid 
sketches  which,  with  the  whole  instinct  and  joy  of  his  nature, 
he  made  all  through  the  cities  of  ancient  Christendom,  with- 
out an  instant  of  flagging  energy,  and  without  a thought  of 
money  payment.  They  became  to  him  afterward  a precious 
librai\y,  of  which  he  never  parted  with  a single  volume  as  long 
as  he  lived.  But  it  was  the  necessary  consequence  of  the  devo- 
tion of  his  main  strength  to  the  obtaining  of  these  studies,  that 
at  his  death  they  remained  a principal  part  of  the  provision 
left  for  his  family,  and  were  therefore  necessarily  scattered. 
I cannot  conceive  any  object  more  directly  tending  to  the 
best  interests  of  our  students,  both  in  art  and  history,  than 
the  reassembling  a chosen  series  of  them  for  the  nation,  as 
opportunity  may  be  given. 

Let  me,  however,  before  entering  on  any  special  notice  of 
those  which  Mr.  Huish  has  been  able  at  this  time  (and, I my- 
self, by  the  good  help  of  the  painter’s  son,  Mr.  Gillespie  Prout), 
to  obtain  for  exhibition,  state  in  all  clearness  the  terms  under 


232 


PREFACE. 


wliicli  they  should  be  judged,  and  may  be  enjoyed.  For  just 
as  we  ought  not  to  match  a wood-block  of  Bewick’s  against  a 
fresco  by  Correggio,  Ave  must  not  compare  a pencil  outline  of 
Front’s  with  any  such  ideals  of  finished  street  effect  as  Flem- 
ish painting  once  produced.  Front  is  not  a colorist,  nor,  in 
any  extended  or  complete  sense  of  the  word,  a painter.  He 
is  essentially  a draughtsman  with  the  lead-pencil,  as  Durer 
Avas  essentially  a draughtsman  with  the  burin,  and  Bewick  on 
the  AA^ood-block.  And  the  chief  art-virtue  of  the  pieces  here 
exhibited  is  the  intellectual  abstraction  which  represents 
many  features  of  things  with  few  lines. 

Take  the  little  vieAV  in  Amiens,  No.  7,  shoAving  the  west 
front  of  the  cathedral  in  the  distance.  That  front  is  enriched 
with  complex  ranks  of  arcade  and  pinnacle,  which  it  Avould 
take  days  to  outline  perfectly,  and  which,  seen  at  the  distance 
assumed  in  this  draAving,  gather  into  a mystery  which  no 
fineness  of  hand  could  imitatively  follow.  But  all  this  has 
been  abstracted  into  a few  steady  lines,  Avith  an  intelligence 
of  choice  and  precision  of  notation  which  build  the  cathedral 
as  if  it  stood  there,  and  in  such  accurate  likeness  that  it  could 
be  recognized  at  a glance  from  every  other  mass  of  Gothic  in 
Europe. 

That  draAving  dependent  on  abstraction  of  this  kind,  in 
which  forms  are  expressed  rather  as  a mineralogist  AAWild 
draAV  a crystal  than  with  any  investing  mystery  of  shade  or 
effect,  cannot  be  carried  beyond  the  point  assigned,  nor  con- 
vey any  sense  of  extreme  beauty  or  majesty,  when  these  really 
exist  in  its  subject,  must  be  conceded  at  once,  and  in  fall. 
But  there  is  a great  deal  of  scenery  in  this  Europe  of  ours, 
not  lovely  ; and  a great  deal  of  habitation  in  this  Europe 
of  ours  not  sublime,  yet  both  extremely  worthy  of  being 
recorded  in  a briefly  crystalline  manner.  And  with  scenes 
only,  and  dwellings  only,  of  this  ruder  nature,  Frout  is  con- 
cerned. 

Take  for  instance  the  general  facts  respecting  the  valley  of 
the  Somme,  collected  in  this  little  sketch  of  Amiens.  That 
river,  and  the  Oise,  Avith  other  neighboring  minor  streams, 
flow  through  a chalk  district  intersected  by  very  ancient  val- 


PREFACE. 


233 


le^^s,  filled  mostly  with  peat  up  to  sea-level,  but  carrying  off 
a large  portion  of  the  rainfall  over  the  whole  surface  of  the 
upper  plains,  which,  open  and  arable,  retain  scarcely  any  mois- 
ture in  morasses,  pools,  or  deep  grass.  The  rivers,  therefore, 
though  with  little  fall,  run  always  fast  and  brimful,  divided 
into  many  serviceable  branches  and  runlets  ; while  the  older 
villages  and  cities  on  their  banks  are  built  of  timber  and  brick, 
or  in  the  poorer  cottages,  timber  and  clay  ; but  their  churches 
of  an  adhesive  and  durable  chalk  rock,  yielding  itself  with  the 
utmost  ease  to  dexterities  of  deep  incision,  and  relieving,  at 
first  with  lace-like  whiteness,  and  always  with  a pleasant  pearly 
gray,  the  shadows  so  obtained.  No  sensual  arts  or  wealthy 
insolences  have  ever  defiled  or  distorted  the  quiet  temper  of 
the  northern  French  race,  and  in  this  busy  little  water-street, 
of  Amiens  (you  see  that  Prout  has  carefully  indicated  its  rapid 
current — a navigable  and  baptismal  brook,  past  step  and  door 
— water  that  one  can  float  with  and  wash  with,  not  a viscous 
vomit  of  black  poison,  like  an  English  river)  you  have  clearly' 
pictured  to  you  a state  of  peasant  life  assembled  in  the  fellow- 
ship of  a city,  yet  with  as  little  pride  as  if  still  in  the  glades  of 
Arden,  and  united  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  mere  neighborliness  ; 
and  the  sense  of  benediction  and  guardianship  in  the  every- 
where visible  pinnacles  of  the  temple  built  by  their  Fathers, 
nor  yet  forsaken  by  their  Fathers’  God. 

All  this  can  be  enough  told  in  a few  rightly  laid  pencil 
lines,  and  more,  it  is  needless  to  tell  of  so  lowly  provincial 
life. 

Needless,  at  least,  for  the  general  public.  For  the  closer 
student  of  architecture,  finer  drawing  may  be  needed  ; but 
even  for  such  keener  requirement  Prout  will  not,  for  a time, 
fail  us. 

Five-and-twenty  miles  down  the  Somme  lies  the  little 
ramparted  town  of  Abbeville  ; rampart  only  of  the  Grand  Mo- 
narque’s  time,  but  the  walls  of  might  long  ago,  in  the  days  of 
Crecy  ; and  few  French  provincial  bourgs  had  then  more 
numerous  or  beautiful  monasteries,  hospitals,  chapels,  and 
churches.  Of  the  central  St.  Wulfran,  never  completed,  there 
remain  only  the  colossal  nave,  the  ruined  transept  walls,  and 


234 


PREFACE. 


the  lordly  towers  and  porches  of  the  west  front.  The  drawing 
No.  5,  quite  one  of  the  best  examples  of  Prout’s  central  time 
in  the  room,  most  faithfully  represents  this  western  pile  of 
tracery  and  fretwork,  with  the  filial  richness  of  the  timber 
houses  that  once  stood  round  it. 

None  of  the  beautiful  ones  here  seen  are  now  left ; and  one 
day,  perhaps,  even  France  herself  will  be  grateful  to  the  wan- 
dering Londoner,  who  drew  them  as  they  once  were,  and 
copied,  without  quite  understanding,  every  sign  and  word  on 
them. 

And  as  one  of  the  few  remaining  true  records  of  fifteenth- 
century  France — such  as  her  vestiges  remained  after  all  the 
wreck  of  revolution  and  recoil  of  war  had  passed  over  them, 
this  pencil  drawing,  slight  as  it  seems,  may  well  take  rank  be- 
side any  pen-sketch  by  Holbein  in  Augsburg,  or  Gentil  Bellini 
in  Venice.  As  a piece  of  composition  and  general  treatment, 
it  might  be  reasoned  on  for  days  ; for  the  cunning  choices  of 
omission,  the  delicate  little  dexterities  of  adjustment — the 
accents  without  vulgarity,  and  reticences  without  affectation — 
the  exactly  enough  everywhere,  to  secure  an  impression  of 
reality,  and  the  instant  pause  at  the  moment  when  another 
touch  would  have  been  tiresome — are,  in  the  soberest  truth, 
more  wonderful  than  most  of  the  disciplined  comjDositions  of 
the  greater  masters,  for  no  scruple  checks  them  for  an  instant 
in  changing  or  introducing  what  they  chose  ; but  Prout  gives 
literal,  and  all  but  servile,  portrait,  only  managing  somehow 
to  get  the  chequers  of  woodwork  to  carry  down  the  richness  of 
the  towers  into  the  houses  ; then  to  get  the  broad  white  wall 
of  the  nearer  houses  to  contrast  with  both,  and  then  sets  the 
transept  turret  to  peep  over  the  roof  just  enough  to  etherialize 
its  practicality,  and  the  black  figure  to  come  in  front  of  it  to 
give  lustre  to  its  whiteness  ; and  so  on  throughout,  down  to 
the  last  and  minutest  touches : — the  incomprehensiblest  class- 
ical sonata  is  not  more  artificial — the  sparklingest  painted 
window  not  more  vivid,  and  the  sharpest  photograph  not  half 
so  natural. 

In  sequence  of  this  drawing,  I may  point  out  seven 
others  of  like  value,  equally  estimable  and  unreplaceable, 


PREFACE, 


235 


• both  in  matters  of  Art,  and — I use  the  word,  as  will  be  seen 
presently,  in  its  full  force — of  History,  namely 

No.  9,  Evkeux. 

No.  10.  Strasburg. 

No.  19.  Antwerp. 

No.  47.  Domo  d’Ossola. 

No.  48,  Como. 

No.  65.  Bologna. 

No.  71.  The  Coliseum. 

I choose  these  eight  drawings  (counting  the  Abbeville),  four 
belonging  to  North  France  and  Germany,  four  to  Italy,  of 
which  the  Northern  ones  do  indeed  utterly  represent  the 
spirit  of  the  architecture  chosen  ; but  the  Southern  subjects 
are  much  more  restricted  in  expression,  for  Front  was  quite 
unable  to  draw  the  buildings  of  the  highest  Italian  school : 
yet  he  has  given  the  vital  look  of  Italy  in  his  day  more  truly 
than  any  other  landscapist,  be  he  who  he  may  ; and  not  ex- 
cepting even  Turner,  for  his  ideal  is  always  distinctly  Tur- 
nerian,  and  not  the  mere  blunt  and  sorrowful  fact. 

You  might  perhaps,  and  very  easily,  think  at  first  that 
these  Front  subjects  were  as  much  “ Froutized  ” (Copley 
Fielding  first  used  that  word  to  me)  as  Turner’s  were  Turner- 
ized.  They  are  not  so,  by  any  manner  of  means,  or  rather, 
they  are  so  by  manner  and  means  only,  not  by  sight  or 
heart.  Turner  saw  things  as  Shelley  or  Keats  did  ; and  with 
perfectly  comprehensive  power,  gave  all  that  such  eyes  can 
summon,  to  gild,  or  veil,  the  fatalities  of  material  truth.  But 
Front  saw  only  what  all  the  world  sees,  what  is  substantially 
and  demonstrably  there  ; and  drew  that  reality,  in  his  much 
arrested  and  humble  manner  indeed,  but  with  perfectly  apos- 
tolic faithfulness.  He  reflected  the  scene  like  some  rough 
old  Etruscan  mirror — ^jagged,  broken,  blurred,  if  you  will, 
but  It,  the  thing  itself  still  ; while  Turner  gives  it,  and  him- 
self too,  and  ever  so  much  of  fairyland  besides.  His  Flor- 
ence or  Nemi  compels  me  to  think,  as  a scholar,  or  (for  so 
much  of  one  as  may  be  in  me)  a poet;  but  Prout’s  harbor  of 


236 


PREFACE. 


old  Como  is  utterly  and  positively  the  very  harbor  I landed  • 
in  when  I was  a boy  of  fourteen,  after  a day’s  rowiug  from 
Cadenabbia,  and  it  makes  me  yoang  again,  and  hot,  and 
happy,  to  look  at  it.  And  that  Bologna ! Well,  the  tower 
does  lean  a little  too  far  over,  certainly  ; but  what  blessed- 
ness to  be  actually  there,  and  to  think  we  shall  be  in  Venice 
to-morrow ! 

But  note  that  the  first  condition  of  all  these  really  great 
drawings  (as  indeed  for  all  kinds  of  other  good),  is  unaffected- 
ness. If  ever  Prout  strains  a nerve,  or  begins  to  think  what 
other  people  will  say  or  feel ; — nay,  if  he  ever  allows  his  own 
real  faculty  of  chiaroscuro  to  pronounce  itself  consciously,  he 
falls  into  fourth-  and  fifth-rate  work  directly  ; and  the  entire 
force  of  him  can  be  found  only  where  it  has  been  called  into 
cheerful  exertion  by  subjects  moderately,  yet  throughout  de- 
lightful to  him  ; which  present  no  difficulties  to  be  conquered, 
no  discords  to  be  reconciled,  and  have  just  enough  of  clarion 
in  them  to  rouse  him  to  his  paces,  without  provoking  him  to 
prance  or  capriole. 

I should  thus  rank  the  drawing  of  Como  (48)  as  quite  of 
the  first  class,  and  in  the  front  rank  of  that  class.  Unat- 
tractive at  first,  its  interest  will  increase  every  moment  that 
you  stay  by  it,  and  every  little  piece  of  it  is  a separate  pic- 
ture, all  the  better  in  itself  for  its  subjection  to  the  whole. 

You  may  at  first  think  the  glassless  windows  too  black. 
But  nothing  can  be  too  black  for  an  open  window  in  a sunny 
Italian  wall,  at  so  short  a distance.  You  may  think  the  hills 
too  light,  but  nothing  can  be  too  light  for  olive  hills  in  mid- 
day summer.  “ They  would  have  come  dark  against  the 
sky  ? ” Yes,  certainly  ; but  we  don’t  pretend  to  draw  Italian 
skies — only  the  ruined  port  of  Como,  which  is  verily  here  be- 
fore us — (alas  ! at  Como  no  more,  having  long  since  been  filled 
up,  levelled,  and  gravelled,  and  made  an  “ esplanade  ” for 
modern  Italy  to  spit  over  in  its  idle  afternoons).  But  take 
the  lens  to  the  old  group  of  houses  ; — they  will  become  as  in- 
teresting as  a missal  illumination  if  you  only  look  carefully 
enough  to  see  how  Prout  varied  those  twenty-seven  black 
holes,  so  that  literally  not  one  of  them  shall  be  like  another. 


PREFACE. 


237 


The  grand  old  Comasque  builder  of  tbe  twelfth  century 
arches  below  (the  whole  school  of  Loinbardic  masonry  being 
originally  Comasque)  varied  them  to  his  hand  enough  in 
height  and  width — but  he  invents  a nevv^  tiny  picture  in  chiar- 
oscuro to  put  under  every  arch,  and  then  knits  all  together 
with  the  central  boats  ; — literally  knits,  for  you  see  the  mast 
of  one  of  them  catches  up  the  cross-stick — stitch  we  might 
call  it — that  the  clothes  hung  on  between  the  balconies  ; and 
then  the  little  figures  on  the  left  catch  up  the  pillars  like 
meshes  in  basket-work,  and  then  the  white  awning  of  the 
boat  on  the  left  repeats  the  mass  of  wall,  taking  the  stiflhess 
out  of  it,  while  the  reflections  of  arches,  with  the  other  fig- 
ures, and  the  near  black  freights,  carry  all  the  best  of  it, 
broken  and  rippling,  to  the  bitter  shore. 

But  the  drawing  of  the  Coliseum  at  Rome,  No.  71,  has  still 
higher  claim  to  our  consideration  ; in  it  Vv^ere  reserved,  and 
in  all  points,  rarer  powers  of  expressing  magnitude  and  soli- 
tude. It  is  so  majestic  in  manner  that  it  would  quite  have 
borne  being  set  beside  the  photograph  of  Turnei-’s  drawing 
at  Farnley  ; had  it  been  fair  to  match  mere  outline  against  a 
finished  composition.  For  Prout  was,  and  he  remains,  the 
only  one  of  our  artists  who  entirely  shared  Turner’s  sense  of 
magnitude,  as  the  sign  of  past  human  effort,  or  of  natural 
force ; and  I must  be  so  far  tedious  as  to  explain  this  meta- 
physical point  at  some  length.  Of  all  forms  of  artistic  sus- 
ceptibility, reverent  perception  of  true  * magnitude  is  the 
rarest.  No  general  conclusion  has  become  more  clear  to 
my  experience  than  this — strange  as  it  ma}^  seem  at  first 
statement,  that  a painter’s  mind,  typically,  recognizes  no 
charm  in  physical  vastness  : and  will,  if  it  must  choose  be- 
tween two  evils,  by  preference  work  on  a reduced,  rather 
than  an  enlarged,  scale;  and  for  subject,  paint  miniature 
rather  than  mass.  Human  form  is  always  given  by  the  great 


* Reckless  accumulation  of  false  magnitude — as  by  John  Martin,  is 
merely  a vulgar  weakness  of  brain,  allied  to  nightmare  ; so  also  the 
colossal  works  of  decadent  states  in  sculpture  and  architecture,  which 
are  always  insolent ; not  reverent 


238 


PREFACE. 


masters  either  of  the  natural  size,  or  somewhat  less  (unless 
under  fixed  conditions  of  distance  which  require  perspective 
enlargement), — and  no  sort  or  shadow  of  pleasure  is  ever  taken 
by  the  strongest  designers  in  bulk  of  matter.  Veronese  never 
paints  shafts  of  pillars  more  than  two  feet  in  diameter,  or 
thereabouts,  and  only  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  in  height. 
Titian’s  beech-trunks  in  the  Peter  Martyr  were  not  a foot 
across  at  the  thickest,  while  his  mountains  are  merely  blue 
spaces  of  graceful  shape,  and  are  never  accurately  enough 
drawn  to  give  even  a suggestion  of  scale.  And  in  the  entire 
range  of  Venetian  marine  painting  there  is  not  one  large 
wave. 

Among  our  own  recent  landscape  painters,  while  occasion- 
ally great  feeling  is  shown  for  space,  or  mystery,  there  is 
none  for  essential  magnitude.  Stanfield  was  just  as  happy 
in  drawing  the  East  cliff  at  Hastings  as  the  Rock  of  Ischia  ; 
and  painted  the  little  sandy  jut  of  crag  far  better  than  the 
coned  volcano.  Fielding  asked  for  no  more  stupendous  sum- 
mits than  those  of  Saddleback  or  Wrynose — and  never  at- 
tempted the  grandeur  even  of  Yorkshire  scars,  finding  their 
articulated  geology  troublesome.  Sometimes  David  Roberts 
made  a praiseworthy  effort  to  explain  the  size  of  a pillar  at 
Thebes,  or  a tower -in  the  Alhambra ; but  only  in  cases  where 
the  character  of  largeness  had  been  forced  upon  his  attention, 
as  the  quality  to  be  observed  by  himself,  and  recommended 
to  the  observation  of  others.  He  never  felt,  or  would  have 
tried  to  make  anyone  else  feel — the  weight  of  an  ordinary 
boulder  stone,  or  the  hollow  of  an  old  chestnut  stem,  or  the 
height  of  a gathering  thunder-cloud.  In  the  real  apprehen- 
sion of  measurable  magnitude,  magnitude  in  things  clearly 
seen — stones,  trees,  clouds,  or  towers — Turner  and  Prout 
stand — they  two — absolutely  side  by  side — otherwise  com- 
panionless. 

Measurable  magnitude,  observe  : — and  therefore  wonderful. 
If  you  can’t  see  the  difference  between  the  domes  of  the  Na- 
tional Gallery  and  of  St.  Paul’s  : — much  more  if  you  can’t  see 
the  difference  between  Shanklin  Chine  and  the  Via  Mala  (and 
most  people  can’t !) — you  will  never  care  either  for  Turner  or 


PREFACE. 


239 


Prout ; — nor  can  you  care  rightly  for  them  unless  you  have  an 
intellectual  pleasure  in  construction,  and  know  and  feel  that  it 
is  more  difficult  to  build  a tower  securely  four  hundred  feet 
high,  than  forty — and  that  the  pillar  of  cloud  above  the  crater 
of  Etna,  standing  two  thousand  feet  forth  from  the  lips  of  it, 
means  a natural  force  greater  than  the  puff  of  a railway  boiler. 
The  quiet  and  calm  feeling  of  reverence  for  this  kind  of  power, 
and  the  accurate  habit  of  rendering  it  (see  notes  on  the 
Sketches  of  Strasburg,  No.  10,  and  Drachenfels,  No.  28) — 
are  always  connected,  so  far  as  I have  observed,  with  some 
13arallel  justice  in  the  estimate  of  spiritual  order  and  power 
in  human  life  and  its  laws  ; — nor  is  there  any  faculty  of  my 
own  mind  — among  those  to  which  I owe  whatever  useful 
results  it  may  have  reached — of  which  I am  so  gratefully 
conscious. 

There  is  one  farther  point — and  if  my  preface  has  hitherto 
been  too  garrulous,  it  must  be  grave  in  notice  of  this  at  the 
close, — in  which  Turner,  Bewick,  Hunt,  and  Prout,  all  four 
agree — that  they  can  draw  the  poor,  but  not  the  rich.  They 
acknowledge  with  affection,  whether  for  principal  or  accessory 
subjects  of  their  art,  the  British  farmer,  the  British  sailox’,*  the 
British  marketwoman,  and  the  British  workman.  They  agree 
unanimously  in  ignoring  the  British  gentleman.  Let  the 
British  gentleman  lay  it  to  heart,  and  ask  himself  why. 

The  general  answer  is  long,  and  manifold.  But,  with  re- 
spect to  the  separate  work  of  Prout,  there  is  a very  precious 


* Including,  of  course,  the  British  soldier  ; but  for  Turner,  a ship  of  the 
line  was  pictoriallj  better  material  than  a field  battery ; else  he  would 
just  as  gladly  have  painted  Albuera  as  Trafalgar.  I am  intensely  anx- 
ious, by  the  way,  to  find  out  where  a small  picture  of  his  greatest  time 
may  now  be  dwelling, ~a  stranded  English  frigate  engaging  the  batteries 
on  the  French  coast  at  sunset  (she  got  off  at  the  flood-tide  in  the  morn- 
ing) ; I want  to  get  it,  if  possible,  for  the  St.  George’s  Museum  at  Sheffield. 
For  the  rest,  I think  the  British  gentleman  may  partly  see  his  way  to 
the  answer  of  the  above  question  if  he  will  faithfully  consider  with  him- 
self how  it  comes  to  pass  that,  always  fearless  in  the  field,  he  is  cow- 
ardly in  the  House, — and  always  generous  in  the  field,— is  yet  meanly 
cunning,  and — too  often— malignant,  in  the  House. 


240 


PREFACE. 


piece  of  instruction  in  it,  respecting  national  prosperity  and 
policy,  which  naay  be  gathered  with  a few  glances. 

You  see  how  all  his  best  pieces  depend  on  figures  either 
crowded  in  market-places,  or  pausing  (lounging,  it  may  be) 
in  quiet  streets — you  will  not  find  in  the  entire  series  of 
subjects  here  assembled  from  his  hand — a single  figure  in 
a hurry  ! He  ignores,  you  see — not  only  the  British  Gentle- 
man ; — but  every  necessary  condition,  nowadays,  of  British 
Business ! 

Look  again,  and  see  if  you  can  find  a single  figure  exerting 
all  its  strength.  A couple  of  men  rolling  a single  cask,  per- 
haps ; here  and  there  a woman  with  rather  a large  bundle  on 
her  head — any  more  athletic  display  than  these,  you  seek  in 
vain. 

He  ignores  even  the  British  Boat-race — and  British  muscu- 
lar divinity,  and  British  Muscular  Art. 

His  figures  are  all  as  quiet  as  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres  ! 
“ Because  he  could  not  make  them  move  ” — think  you  ? Nay, 
not  so.  Some  of  them — (that  figure  on  the  sands  in  the  Calais, 
for  instance),  you  can  scarcely  think  are  standing  still — but 
they  all  move  quietly.  The  real  reason  is  that  he  understood 
— and  we  do  not — the  meaning  of  the  word — “quiet.” 

He  understood  it,  personally,  and  for  himself : practically 
and  for  others.  Take  this  one  fact — of  his  quiet  dealings  with 
men,  and  think  over  it.  In  his  early  days  he  had  established 
a useful  and  steady  connection  with  the  country  dealers, — that 
is  to  say,  with  the  leading  printsellers  in  the  county  town  a 
and  principal  watering-places.  He  supplied  them  with  ]Dretty 
drawings  of  understood  size  and  price,  which  were  nearly  al- 
ways in  tranquil  demand  by  the  better  class  of  customers. 
The  understood  size  was  about  10  inches  by  14  or  15,  and  the 
fixed  price,  six  guineas.  The  dealer  charged  from  seven  to 
ten,  according  to  the  pleasantness  of  the  drawing.  I bought 
the  “Venice,”  for  instance,  No.  55,  from  Mr.  Hewitt,  of  Leam- 
ington, for  eight  guineas. 

The  modern  fashionable  interest  in — what  we  suppose  to  be 
art — had  just  begun  to  show  itself  a few  years  before  Front’s 
death  ; and  he  was  frequently  advised  to  raise  his  prices.  But 


PREFACE, 


241 


he  never  raised  them  a shilling  to  his  old  customers.*  They 
were  supplied  with  all  the  drawings  they  wanted,  at  six  guineas 
each,  to  the  end.  A very  peaceful  method  of  dealing,  and 
under  the  true  ancient  laws  ordained  by  Athena  of  the  Agora, 
and  St.  James  of  the  Kialto. 

Athena,  observe,  of  the  Agora,  or  Market  Place.  And  St. 
James  of  the  Deep  Stream,  or  Market  River.  The  Angels  of 
Honest  Sale  and  Honest  Porterage  ; such  honest  porterage 
being  the  true  grandeur  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  of  all  other 
canals,  rivers,  sounds,  and  seas  that  ever  moved  in  wavering 
morris  under  the  night.  And  the  eternally  electric  light  of 
the  embankment  of  that  Kialto  stream  was  shed  upon  it  by 
the  Cross — know  you  that  for  certain,  you  dwellers  by  high- 
embanked  and  steamer-burdened  Thames, 

And  learn  from  your  poor  wandering  painter  this  lesson — 
for  sum  of  the  best  he  had  to  give  you  (it  is  the  Alpha  of  the 
Laws  of  true  human  life) — that  no  city  is  prosperous  in  the 
sight  of  heaven,  unless  the  peasant  sells  in  its  market — adding 
this  lesson  of  Gentile  Bellini’s  for  the  Omega,  that  no  city  is 
ever  righteous  in  the  Sight  of  Heaven,  unless  the  noble  walks 
in  its  street. 


* Nor  greatly  to  his  new  ones.  The  drawings  made  for  tlie  Water- 
color  room  were  nsnally  more  elaborate,  and,  justly,  a little  higher  in 
price  ; but  my  father  bought  the  Lisieux,  No.  13,  off  its  walls,  for  eigh- 
teen guineas. 


16 


ili' -•  r/r 

{'••;?;,  ,-^rJk-*'j.*  'la-  .fs  V»-.,r.t*:  'Jisk  -C^r-Jiw^ 

V-!  r-f;;’.:  .•sii4v.«,U/T‘>bf§/ 

- ' ■ . ’ '■  -I  r >:LMo 

;;jrA  . ^ -if>  ti\"hO))A  'lU^  l/t  ,J^nbUiA 

,'f‘ >.  ■'jl..-:^fVA  ^y.i'V  /.  V " ..■  -.nM  '1*>  lx>  •.-a'fijji, 

5 .Uu*^‘a  ..'lojrfj;.  . -jjir' 

:0:4oXa^;  Ai^;t’tf>  ‘/iH  ;o  omt 

•;:  -ri-'v/v-f  ! •‘:>/'i. -::j.  ; r !•.  .‘VfX^jrijiJJSO  , 

r5l.iX>;‘'  • ?-i  :il iXK;  '‘i^l  n .:  ^\ iVjt-l 

yti  i\  ...:-'.p-;  Axji-  JU'  J f 'T.-:-!n.---ja.iO  ’>-fj 

,...•  .■  j.-, •/»»{.  •■  V {>  rj'ir  .■rs-.'hisn  .'K<^  >f5;U  li'-;.;  - <•.; 

sri:,sir3. 

■■■‘I  >1?;::  ■!;.  V‘  :0‘‘ J },  ■ •rl  llJ'd  l:.A  _ 

-'it-  . V : / >:;"  f-:  ■.'  ■•vb.;  • ) l/r-'f  ••>,".  i-;  *4  iv  '*r«B 

:•:  &;■•■;  IV f rfi  ov-  • v'- — \ 'lii  ffCvTr:::]  XTit?- kr  X X 

:-^:'j>;.:-i--  ; :I:  ;;:  .i ' ' :.  ' '[-i H -.rtiJT ire^^i  k)'1i.’V^' 

' tn  .•'?••/'•’:  v'  ^ J *.'  : •»  J ■ ■iji:if;h  'to 

■f  '■■  '■  ckuii:  C !;  r-:r-':irr  . ?':i  ifitooilff.hh&t'i 

• ;■  _ .5  -I  '.  •• : l-i  w «r 


* '-Vi  ^ •*' 

. i-'r'.  7 “''f'  i*j ; i;  IV'- '•■  r;  .•/./.■■;  -.il't'  ,vsv;co  . -x  . ,!  i"’  ._i  lvv»  i*.  y.  * 

/ -vr:.,  -rV;,-  ;,■>;.-•■  . - •,Xx><i?*'-.' -i  ■■' X . i-  ‘ 

'-i'  'T  ;.V'  n-  ••  ■*  *v'!  'vv-,  >V;  i 't-u-. 


CATALOGUE. 


I.-PKOUT. 


The  reader  will  find,  ending  this  pamphlet,  a continuous 
index  to  the  whole  collection  of  drawings,  with  references  to  the 
pages  in  which  special  notice  has  been  taken  of  them.  So  that 
in  this  descriptive  text,  I allow  myself  to  pause  in  explanatory, 
or  wander  in  discursive,  statement,  just  as  may  seem  to  me 
most  helpful  to  the  student,  or  most  likely  to  interest  the 
general  visitor. 

I begin  with  the  series  of  pencil  drawings  by  Prout,  which 
were  my  principal  object  in  promoting  this  exhibition.  Of 
these  I have  chosen  seventy,  all  of  high  quality,  and  arranged 
so  as  to  illustrate  the  outgoing  course  of  an  old-fashioned 
Continental  tour,  beginning  at  Calais,  and  ending  at  Kome. 
Following  the  order  of  these  with  attention,  an  intellectual 
observer  may  learn  many  things — not  to  his  hurt. 

Their  dates,  it  will  be  noticed,  are  never  given  by  the  artist 
himself — except  in  the  day  ; never  the  year — nor  is  there  any- 
thing in  the  progress  of^Prout’s  skill,  or  in  his  changes  of 
manner,  the  account  of  which  need  detain  us  long.  From 
earliest  boyhood  to  the  day  of  his  death,  he  drew  firmly,  and 
never  scrabbled  or  blurred.  Not  a single  line  or  dot  is 
ever  laid  without  positive  intention,^  and  the  care  needful  to 
fulfil  that  intention.  This  is  already  a consummate  virtue. 
But  the  magnificent  certainty  and  ease,  united,  which  it  en- 
abled him  to  obtain,  are  only  seen  to  the  full  in  drawings  of 

* See  tlie  exception  proving  the  rule,  in  a single  line,  in  No.  12,  there 
noted. 


244 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT. 


his  middle  time.  Not  in  decrepitude,  but  in  mistaken  effort, 
for  which,  to  my  sorrow,  I was  partly  myself  answerable,  he 
endeavored  in  later  journeys  to  make  his  sketches  more 
accurate  in  detail  of  tracery  and  sculpture  ; and  they  lost  in 
feeling  what  they  gained  in  technical  exactness  and  elabora- 
tion. Of  these  later  drawings  only  three  are  included  in  this 
series,  4,  8,  and  17  ; their  peculiar  character  will,  however,  be 
at  once  discernible. 

His  incipient  work  was  distinguished  by  two  specialties — 
the  use  of  a gray  washed  tint  with  the  pencil,  a practice  en- 
tirely abandoned  in  his  great  time  (though  he  will  always 
make  notes  of  color  frankly) ; and  the  insisting  on  minor 
pieces  of  broken  texture,  in  small  stones,  bricks,  grass,  or  any 
little  picturesque  incidents,  with  loss  of  largeness  and  repose. 
The  little  study  of  the  apse  of  Worms  Cathedral  (32),  a most 
careful  early  drawing,  shows  these  faults  characteristicall}’'  ; 
the  Prague  (23)  is  as  definite  an  example  of  his  great  central 
manner,  and  even  Turner’s  outline  is  not  more  faultless, 
though  more  complete.  For  the  rest.  Turner  himself  shared 
in  the  earlier  weakness  of  more  sharply  dotted  and  sprinkled 
black  touches,  and  practised,  cotemporaneously,  the  wash  of 
gray  tint  with  the  pencil.  The  chief  use  of  the  method  to 
the  young  student  is  in  its  compelling  him  to  divide  his 
masses  clearly  ; and  I used  it  much  myself  in  early  sketches, 
such  as  that  of  the  Aventine,  No.  104a,  for  mere  cleanliness 
and  comfort  in  security  of  shadow — rather  than  the  always 
rubbing  and  vanishing  blacklead.  But  it  is  an  entirely  re- 
stricted method,  and  must  be  abandoyed  in  all  advanced  study, 
and  the  pencil  used  alone  both  for  shade  and  line,  until  the 
finer  gradations  of  shadow  are  understood.  T/ien  color  may 
be  used  with  the  pencil  for  notation,  and  every  power  at  once 
is  in  the  workman’s  hands.  The  two  first  studies  in  our 
series  are  perfect  instances  of  this  conclusive  method.* 

There  were  more  reasons,  and  better  ones,  than  the  students 


* For  further  notes  on  tlie  methods  of  shape  proper  to  the  great 
masters,  the  reader  may  consult  the  third  and  fourth  numbers  of  my 
Laws  of  Fesole. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


245 


of  to-day  would  suppose,  for  his  not  adopting  it  oftener.  The 
subjects  in  Cornwall  and  Derbyshire,  by  which  his  mind  was 
first  formed,  were  most  of  them  wholly  discouraging  in  color, 
if  not  gloomy  or  offensive.  Gray  blocks  of  whinstone,  black 
timbers,  and  broken  walls  of  clay,  needed  no  iridescent  illus- 
tration ; the  heath  and  stonecrop  were  beyond  his  skill  ; and, 
had  he  painted  them  with  the  staunchest  efforts,  would  not 
have  been  translatable  into  the  coarse  lithographs  for  Acker- 
man n’s  drawing-books,  the  publication  of  which  was  at  that 
time  a principal  source  of  income  to  him.  His  richer  Conti- 
nental subjects  of  later  times  were  often  quite  as  independent 
of  color,  and  in  nearly  every  case  taken  under  circumstances 
rendering  its  imitation  impossible.  He  might  be  permitted 
by  indulgent  police  to  stop  a thoroughfare  for  an  hour  or  two 
witli  a crowd  of  admirers,  but  by  no  means  to  settle  himself 
in  a comfortable  tent  upon  the  pavement  for  a couple  of 
months,  or  set  up  a gypsy  encampment  of  pots  and  easel  in  the 
middle  of  the  market-place.  Also,  his  constitution,  as  delicate 
as  it  was  sanguine,  admitted  indeed  of  his  sitting  without 
harm  for  half  an  hour  in  a shady  lane,  or  basking  for  part  of 
the  forenoon  in  a sunny  piazza,  but  would  have  broken  down 
at  once  under  the  continuous  strain  necessary  to  paint  a pict- 
ure in  the  open  air.  And  under  these  conditions  the  wonder 
is  onl}^  how  he  did  so  much  that  was  attentive  and  true,  and 
that  even  his  most  conventional  water-colors  are  so  refined  in 
light  and  shade  that  even  the  slightest  become  almost  majestic 
when  engraved. 

1.  Calais. 

Sketch  on  the  spot,  of  the  best  time  and  highest 
quality— -the  clouds  put  in  as  they  stood — the  brig  as  she 
lay — the  figures  where  they  measure  the  space  of  sand, 
and  give  the  look  of  busy  desolateness,  which  poor  Calais 
— crown  jewel  of  England — had  fallen  to  in  our  day — 
Front’s  and  mine.  You  see  the  size  of  the  steam-packet 
of  the  period  ; you  may  trust  Prout’s  measure  of  its  mag- 
nitude, as  aforesaid.  So  also  cf  belfry,  lighthouse,  and 
church — very  dear  all  to  the  old  painter,  as  to  me.  I 


246 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


gave  my  own  drawing  of  the  lighthouse  and  belfry,  No. 
104,  to  the  author  of  Rob  and  his  Friends^  who  per- 
haps lend  it  me  for  comparison.*  My  drawing  of  the 
church  spire  is  lost  to  me,  but  somewhere  about  in  the 
world,  I hope,  and  perhaps  may  be  yet  got  hold  of,  and 
kept  with  this  drawing,  for  memory  of  old  Calais,  and  il- 
lustration of  what  was  meant  by  the  opening  passage  of 
the  fourth  volume  of  “Modern  Painters.”  (Appendix II.) 

Take  the  lens  f to  the  gate  of  the  tower  (above  the 
steamer)  and  see  how,  in  such  a little  bit,  the  architecture 
is  truly  told.  Compare  Hogarth’s  Gate  of  Calais. 

2.  Calais  Old  Pier. 

Turner’s  great  subject.  But  Turner’s  being  earlier 
taken,  while  the  English  packet  was  still  only  a fast-sail- 
ing cutter — (steam  unthought  of !)  A perfect  gem  of 
masterful  studj%  and  quiet  feeling  of  the  facts  of  eternal 
sea  and  shore. 

The  solemnly  rendered  m^^stery  of  the  deep  and  far 
sea  ; the  sway  of  the  great  waves  entering  over  the  bar  at 
the  harbor’s  mouth  ; the  ebbing  away  of  the  sand  at  the 
angle  of  the  pier  ; the  heaping  of  it  in  hills  against  its 
nearer  side,  I and  the  way  in  which  all  is  made  huge, 
bleak,  and  Avild  by  the  deeper  tone  of  the  dark  sail  and 
figure,  are  all  efforts  of  the  highest  art  faculty,  which  we 
cannot  too  much  honor  and  thank. 

3.  Studies  of  French  and  Netherland  Figures  and  Dili- 

gences. 

Exemplary  in  the  manner  of  abstract,  and  perfect  in 
figure  drawing,  for  his  purposes.  They  are  poor  persons. 


* It  was  exhibited  last  year,  but  if  it  comes  from  Scotland,  will  be 
shown  again  for  proof  of  Prout’s  fidelity  in  distant  form. 

f For  proper  study  of  any  good  work  in  painting  and  drawing,  the 
student  should  always  have  in  his  hand  a magnifying  glass  of  moderate 
power,  from  two  to  three  inches  in  diameter. 

t Compare  the  sentence  respecting  this  same  place,  Appendix  II., 
“ surfy  sand,  and  hillocked  shore.” 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


247 


you  see — all  of  them.  Not  quite  equal  to  Miss  Kate 
Greenaway’s  in  grace,  nor  to  Mrs.  Allingham’s  in  face 
(they,  therefore,  you  observe,  have  mostly  their  backs  to 
us).  But  both  Miss  Kate  and  Mrs.  Allingham  might  do 
better  duty  to  their  day,  and  better  honor  to  their  art, 
if  they  would  paint,  as  verily,  some  of  these  poor  country 
people  in  far-away  places,  rather  than  the  high-bred  pret- 
tinesses or  fond  imaginations,  which  are  the  best  they 
have  given  us  yet  for  antidote  to  the  misery  of  London. 

4.  Abbeville.  Church  of  St.  Wulfran. 

Seen  from  the  west,  over  old  houses  (since  destroyed). 
Of  the  artist’s  best  time  and  manner.  See  Preface,  page 
233. 

5.  Abbeville.  Church  of  St.  Wulfran — the  northwestern 

TOWER,  with  old  HOUSES. 

Elaborate.  Of  the  late  time,  but  not  in  the  highest 
degree  good.  The  chiaroscuro  of  the  pinnacles  evident- 
ly caught  on  the  spot,  but  not  carried  through  the  draw- 
ing rightly,  and  the  whole  much  mannered.  Precious, 
however,  for  all  that. 

6.  Photograph  of  the  Porches  of  St,  Wulfran,  Abbeville. 

7.  Amiens. 

One  of  the  best  of  the  best  time.  See  Preface,  page 
232,  and  compare  the  extract  from  “Modern  Painters,” 
given  in  Appendix  III. 

8.  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  in  St.  Jaques,  Dieppe. 

One  of  the  best  studies  of  the  last  period.  See  further 
notes  on  it  under  the  number  17. 

9.  Evreux. 

Perfect  sketch  of  the  best  time,  and  most  notable  for 
the  exquisite  grace  of  proportion  in  its  wooden  belfry. 
No  architect,  however  accurate  in  his  measurements — no 
artist,  however  sensitive  in  his  admiration — ever  gave  the 


248 


NOTES  ON  PROTJT, 


proportion  and  grace  of  Gothic  spires  and  towers  with 
the  loving  fidelity  that  Prout  did.  This  is  much  to  say ; 
and  therefore  I say  it  again  deliberately  : there  are  no 
existing  true  records  of  the  real  effect  of  Gothic  towers 
and  spires — except  only  Front’s.  And  now  I must  be 
tedious  a while,  and  explain  what  I mean  in  saying  this — 
being  much — and  show  it  to  be  true.  Observe  first — 
everything  in  grace  of  form  depends  on  truth  of  scale. 
You  don’t  show  how  graceful  a thing  is,  till  you  show 
how  large  it  is ; for  all  grace  means  ultimately  the  use  of 
strength  in  the  right  way,  moral  and  physical,  against  a 
given  force.  A swan,  no  bigger  than  a butterfl}'-,  would 
not  be  graceful — its  grace  is  in  its  proportion  to  the 
waves  and  power  over  them.  A butterfly  as  large  as  a 
swan  would  not  be  graceful — its  beauty  is  in  being  so 
small  that  the  winds  play  with  it,  but  do  not  vex  it.  A 
hollow  traceried  spire  fifteen  feet  high  would  be  effem- 
inate and  frivolous,  for  it  would  be  stronger  solid — a hol- 
low traceried  spire  five  hundred  feet  high,  is  beautiful ; 
for  it  is  safer  so,  and  the  burden  of  the  builder’s  toil 
spared.  All  wisdom — economy — beauty,  and  holiness, 
are  one ; harmonious  throughout — in  all  iffaces,  times, 
and  things  : understand  any  one  of  their  orders,  and  do 
it — it  will  lead  you  to  another — to  all  others,  in  time. 

Now,  therefore,  think  why  this  spire  of  Evreux  is 
graceful.  If  it  were  only  silver  filigree  over  a salt-cellar, 
it  would  still  be  pretty  (for  it  is  beautifully  varied  and 
arranged).  But  not  “ graceful  ” (or  full  of  grace).  The 
reason  is  that  it  is  built,  not  with  silver,  but  with  aspen 
logs,  and  because  there  has  been  brought  a strange  refine- 
ment and  melody,  as  of  chiming  in  tune,  and  virtue  of 
uprightness — and  precision  of  pointedness,  into  the  aspen 
logs,  which  nobody  could  ever  have  believed  it  w'as  in  a 
log  to  receive.  And  it  is  graceful  also,  because  it  is  evi- 
dently playful  and  bright  in  temper.  There  are  no  labor- 
ing logs  visible — no  propping,  or  thrusting,  or  bearing 
logs — no  mass  of  enduring  and  afflicted  timber — only  im- 
aginative timber,  aspiring  just  high  enough  for  praise, 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


249 


not  for  ambition.  Twice  as  high  as  it  ever  could  have 
stood  in  a tree — by  honor  of  men  done  to  it  ; but  not  so 
high  as  to  strain  its  strength,  and  make  it  weak  among 
the  winds,  or  perilous  to  the  people. 

10.  Strasburg — The  Cathedral  Spire. 

I have  put  this  drawing — quite  one  of  the  noblest  in  all 
tlie  series — out  of  its  geographical  place,  and  beside  the 
Evreux,  that  you  may  compare  the  qualities  of  grace  in 
wooden  and  stone  buildings ; and  follow  out  our  begun 
reasoning  further. 

Examine  first  bow  the  height  is  told.  Conscientiously, 
to  begin  with.  He  had  not  room  enough  on  his  paper 
(perhaps),  and  put  the  top  at  the  side  rather  than  blunt 
or  diminish  the  least  bit.  I say  “ perhaps,”  because,  v/ith 
most  people,  that  w'ould  have  been  the  way  of  it  ; but  my 
own  private  opinion  is,  that  he  never  meant  to  have  room 
on  his  paper  for  it — that  he  felt  instinctively  that  it  was 
grander  to  have  it  going  up  nobody  knew  where— only 
that  he  could  not  draw  it  so  for  the  public,  and  must 
have  the  top  handy  to  put  on  afterward. 

Conscientiously,  first,  the  height  is  told  ; next,  artfully. 
He  chooses  his  place  just  where  you  can  see  the  principal 
porch  at  the  end  of  the  street — takes  care,  by  every  arti- 
fice of  perspective  and  a little  exaggeration  of  aerial  tone, 
to  make  you  feel  how  far  off  it  is  ; then  carries  it  up  into 
the  clearer  air.  Of  course,  if  you  don’t  notice  the  distant 
porch,  or  are  not  in  the  habit  of  measuring  the  size  of  one 
part  of  a thing  by  another,  you  will  not  feel  it  here — but 
neither  would  you  have  felt  it  there,  at  Strasburg  itself. 

Next  for  composition.  If  you  ever  read  my  last  year’s 
notes  on  Turner,  you  must  remember  how  often  I had  to 
dwell  on  his  ^vay  of  conquering  any  objectionable  charac- 
ter in  his  main  subject  by  putting  more  of  the  same  char- 
acter in  something  else,  where  it  was  not  objectionable. 
Now  it  happens  to  be  one  of  the  chief  faults  of  Strasburg 
Spire  (and  it  has  many,  for  all  the  reputation  of  it),  to  be 
far  too  much  constituted  of  meagre  upright  lines  (see  the 


250 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT, 


angle  staircases,  and  process  of  their  receding  at  the  top, 
and  the  vertical  shafts  across  the  window  at  its  base). 
Prout  instantly  felt,  as  he  drew  the  tower,  that,  left  to 
itself  it  would  be  too  ironlike  and  stiff.  He  does  not  dis- 
guise this  character  in  the  least,  but  conquers  it  utterly  by 
insisting  with  all  his  might  on  the  flutings  of  the  pilasters 
of  the  near  well.  “How  ill  drawn  these  ! ” 3^ou  say.  Yes, 
but  he  hates  these  in  themselves,  and  does  not  care  how 
badly  he  draws  them,  so  only  that  by  their  ugly  help  he 
can  save  the  Cathedral.  Which  they  completely  do  ; tak- 
ing all  the  stiffness  out  of  it,  and  leaving  it  majestic. 
Next — he  uses  contrast  to  foil  its  beauty,  as  he  has  used 
repetition  to  mask  its  faults.  In  the  Abbeville,  No.  4,  he 
had  a beautiful  bit  of  rustic  white  wall  to  set  off  his  towers 
with.  Here,  in  Strasburg,  half  modernized,  alas  ! even  in 
his  time,  he  finds  nothing  better  than  the  great  ugly  white 
house  behind  the  lamp.  In  old  times,  remember,  a series 
of  gables  like  that  of  the  last  house  would  have  gone  all 
down  the  street.  (Compare  the  effect  in  Antwerp,  No. 
19,  all  contemporary. ) Prout  will  not  do  any  “restora- 
tion ” — he  knows  better ; but  he  could  easily  have  dis- 
guised this  white  house  with  cast  shadows  across  the 
street  and  some  blinds  and  carpets  at  the  windows.  *But 
the  white,  vulgar  mass  shall  not  be  so  hidden,  and  the 
richness  of  all  the  old  work  shall  gain  fulness  out  of  the 
modern  emptiness,  and  modesty  out  of  the  modern  im- 
pudence. 

Pre-eminently  the  gain  is  to  the  dear  old  gabled  house 
on  the  right,  which  is  the  real  subject  of  the  drawing, 
being  a true  Strasburg  dwelling-house  of  the  great  times. 
But  before  speaking  more  of  this,  I must  ask  you  to  look 
at  the  next  subject. 

12.  Lisieux,  Old  Street  in. 

This,  though  it  contains  so  much  work,  is  a hurried  and 
fatigued  drawing — fatigued  itself  in  a sense,  as  having 
more  touches  put  on  it  than  were  good  for  it  ; and  the 
sign  of  fatigue  in  the  master,  or  perhaps  rather  of  passing 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


251 


illness,  for  he  seems  never  to  have  been  tired  in  the  or- 
dinary way.  The  unusually  confused  and  inarticulate 
figures,  the  more  or  less  wriggled  and  ill-drawn  draperies, 
and  the  unfinished  foundation  of  the  house  on  the  right, 
where  actually  there  is  a line  crossing  another  unin- 
tentionally ! are  all  most  singular  with  him  ; and  I fancy 
he  must  have  come  on  this  subject  at  the  end  of  a sickly- 
minded  day,  and  yet  felt  that  he  must  do  all  he  could 
for  it,  and  then  broken  down. 

He  has  resolved  to  do  it  justice,  at  least  in  the  draw- 
ing No.  , one  of  the  best  in  the  room  ; but  there  are 
characters  in  the  subject  itself  which,  without  his  quite 
knowing  wh}’-,  cramped  him,  and  kept  several  of  his  finer 
powers  from  coming  into  play. 

Note  first,  essentially,  he  is  a draughtsman  of  stone, 
not  wood,  and  a tree-trunk  is  always  wholly  beyond  his 
faculty  ; so  that,  when  everything  is  wooden,  as  here, 
he  has  to  translate  his  stony  manner  for  it  all  through, 
and  is  as  if  speaking  a foreign  language.  In  the  finished 
drawing,  one  scarcely  knows  whether  the  near  doorway 
is  stone  or  wood. 

And  there  was  one  character,  I repeat,  in  this  subject 
that  specially  strained  this  weak  part  of  him.  When  a 
wooden  house  is  in  properly  wooden  style — he  can  always 
do  it,  as  at  Abbeville  and  Strasburg.  But  this  street 
at  Lisieux  is  a wooden  street  in  stone  style.  I feel  even 
tempted  to  write  fine  scientific  modern  English  about  it, 
and  say  it  is  objectively  lignologic  and  subjectively  petro- 
logic. The  crossing  beams  of  the  wall-courses,  and  king- 
posts of  the  gables  in  dormer  windows  are  indeed 
properly  expressive  of  timber  structure  ; but  all  the 
sculpture  is  imitative  of  the  forms  developed  in  the  stone 
traceries  of  the  same  period  — seen  perfectly  in  the 
elaborate  drawing.  No.  8. 

Those  traceries  were  themselves  reciprocally  cor- 
rupted, as  we  shall  see  presently,  by  the  woodwork 
practised  all  round  them  ; but  both  the  Burgundian  and 
Norman  later  Gothic  was  corrupted  by  its  own  luxurious 


252 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


laziness,  before  it  took  any  infection  from  the  forest.  In- 
stead of  building  a real  pointed  arch — they  merely  put 
a cross  lintel  with  a nick  in  it  * {a),  then  softened  the 
nick-edges  and  ran  a line  of  moulding  round  it  (6),  and 


a b c 


then  ran  up  a flourish  above  to  show  what  a clever  thing 
they  had  done  (c) — and  there  you  are.  But  there  is 
much  more  curious  interest  in  this  form  of  wooden  im- 
itative architecture  than  any  mere  matter  of  structural 
propriety. 

Please  compare  the  Lisieux  houses  in  No.  11,  with  the 
house  on  the  right  at  Strasburg  in  No.  10.  You  see 
there  are  no  pinnacles  nor  crockets  imitated  there.  All 
is  sternly  square — upright  timber  and  cross  timber — 
cut  into  what  ornamental  current  mouldings  the  work- 
man knew. 

And  yet  you  see  the  Cathedral  at  the  side  is  eminent- 
ly gabled  and  pinnacular ! Kun  your  eye  from  the 
square  window  of  the  second  story  of  the  house  (third 
from  ground),  along  to  the  cathedral  gabled  traceiy. 
Could  any  two  st^des  be  more  adverse  ? While  on  the 
contrar}^  the  Lisieux  street  is  merely  a “changing  the 
willow  wreaths  to  stone  ” — in  imitation  of  the  chapel  of 
St.  Jaques  ? It  is  true,  the  Lisieux  street  is  contempo- 
rary with  St.  Jaques,  and  the  Strasburg  house  a century 
or  so  later  than  the  Cathedral ; but  that  is  not  the  reason 
of  the  opposition.  Had  they  been  either  pure  French 


* Without  the  nick,  mind  you,  it  would  have  been  a grand 
building — pure  Greek  or  pui-e  Tuscan,  and  capable  of  boundless 
good.  It  is  the  Nicolaitane  nick  that’s  the  devil. 


NOTES  ON  FROUT. 


253 


or  pure  German,  the  two  would  have  declined  together 
and  have  died  together.  But  in  France  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  church,  noblesse,  and  people,  were  one  body,  and 
the  people  in  Lisieux  loved  and  delighted  in  their  clergy 
and  nobles,  as  the  Venetians  did — 

“ Pontifices,  clerus,  populus,  dux  mente  sereuus.” 

But  Strasbourg  is  on  the  edge— nay,  on  the  Pole — of  all 
divisions.  Virtuall}^  from  west  to  east,  between  Dijon 
and  Berne  ; virtually,  from  north  to  south,  between  Co- 
logne and  Basle ; virtually,  if  you  have  eyes  the  Diet  of 
Worms  is  in  it  ; the  Council  of  Constance  is  in  it ; the 
Battle  of  Sempach  is  there,  and  the  rout  of  Granson. 

That  is  a Swdss  cottage^  with  all  ecclesiastical  and  feudal 
powers  flaming  up  into  the  sky  n't  the  side  of  it,  and  the 
iron  lances  and  lines  of  them  are  as  lace  round  the  “ Com- 
merce de  Jean  Diehl.”  “ Commerce,”  a grand  word,  which 
w'e  suppose  ourselves  here  to  understand,  an  entirely  vile 
one,  if  misunderstood.  Human  commerce,  a business  for 
men  and  angels ; but  inhuman,  for  apes  and  spectres. 
We  must  look  at  a few  more  street-scenes  in  order  to  find 
out  which  sort  Jean  Diehl’s  belongs  to. 

14,  Bayeux. 

A small  sketch,  but  first-rate,  and  with  half  a mile  of 
street  in  it.  Pure  and  plain  woodwork  this,  with  prop 
and  buttress  of  stumpy  stone — healthy  all,  and  sound  ; 
note  especially  the  strong  look  of  foundation,  as  opposed 
to  the  modern  style  of  house-front  in  most  commercial 
quarters — five  stories  of  brick  wall  standing  on  the  edge 
of  a pane  of  plate-glass. 

15.  Toues. 

The  saints  presiding  over  an  old- clothes  shop,  appar- 
ently— but  it  may  be  the  fashionable  drapers  of  the 
quarter.  I merely  give  it  as  an  example  of  the  developed 
form  of  bracket,  the  end  of  the  cross  timber  becoming 


254 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT. 


a niche,  and  the  prop,  a saint — not  without  meaning. 
Much  more  strength  than  is  really  wanted  allowed  in  the 
backing,  so  that  these  corrugated  saints  do  not  by  their 
recessed  niches  really  weaken  the  structure.  Compare 
photograph,  No.  117. 

16.  Rouen.  The  Butter-tower. 

Built  with  the  octroi  on  butter — not  a right  way-— be 
it  spoken,  in  passing.  All  taxes  on  food  of  any  sort,  or 
drink  of  any  sort,  are  w^ong,  W’hether  to  build  a pious 
tower,  or  support  an  impious  government. 

A tired  sketch — the  house  on  the  left,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  in  France,  hurried  and  ill  done. 

17.  Rouen.  Staircase  in  St.  Maclou. 

Almost  unique  in  the  elaboration  of  the  texture  in  mar- 
ble pillar,  and  effect  of  distant  light,  showing  what  he  was 
capable  of  in  this  kind  ; compare  St.  Jaques,  No.  8,  \vhere 
he  gets  flickering  sunlight  through  painted  glass.  There, 
the  effect  is  pathetic  and  expressive  ; but  both  texture  and 
effect  of  light  were  mistakes,  in  St.  Maclou  ; it  does  not 
in  the  least  matter  to  the  staircase  whether  the  pillar  is 
smooth,  or  the  window  bright.  In  earlier  times  he  Avould 
have  merely  indicated  the  forms  of  both,  and  given  his 
time  to  gather  groups  of  figures  following  the  circular 
sweep  of  the  staircase. 

18.  Ghent. 

Having  run  south  now  as  far  as  I care,  we  will  turn 
back,  please,  to  go  through  the  Netherlands  into  Germany. 
Pretty  nearly  all  the  Netherlands  are  in  this  and  the  fol- 
lowing drawing.  Boats,  beside  houses  ; the  boats  heavily 
practical  : the  houses  heavily  fanciful ; but  both  accurate 
and  perfect  in  their  W’ay  ; work  of  a great,  though  fen- 
witted,  people.  The  Ghent  scene  is  the  very  cream  of 
Prout — all  that  he  could  best  do  in  his  happiest  times — 
his  Cornish  and  Hastings  boat-study  standing  him  in 
thorough  stead  here,  though  it  will  fail  him  at  Venice,  as 
we  shali  sadly  see. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT, 


255 


19.  Antwerp. 

Altogether  magnificent : the  noble  street-scene,  requir- 
ing no  effort  to  exalt,  no  artifice  to  conceal  a single  fea- 
ture in  it.  Pure  fact — the  stately  houses  and  the  simple 
market,  and  the  divine  tower.  You  would  like  adver- 
tisements all  along  the  house-fronts,  instead,  wouldn’t 
you?  and  notices  of  sale — at  a ruinous  sacrifice — in  the 
shop-windows,  wouldn’t  you?  and  a tramway  up  the 
street,  and  a railway  under  it,  and  a gasometer  at  the  end 
of  it,  instead  of  a cathedral — now,  wouldn’t  you  ? 

21.  Brunswick. 

Dainty  still ; a most  lovely  drawing.  I didn’t  find  any- 
thing so  good  in  the  town  myself,  but  was  not  there  until 
1859,  when,  I suppose,  all  the  best  of  it  had  been  knocked 
down.  The  Stadthaus  (see  lithograph.  No.  93)  is  unique 
in  the  support  of  its  traceries  on  light  transverse  arches, 
but  this  innovation,  like  nearly  all  German  specialities  in 
Gothic,  is  grotesque,  and  affected  without  being  ingenious. 

22.  Dresden. 

An  exquisite  drawing  ; and  most  curious  in  the  entire 
conquest  and  calming  down  of  Front’s  usual  broken 
touch  into  Renaissance  smoothness.  It  is  the  best  exist- 
ing representation  of  the  old  town,  and  readers  of  Fried- 
rich may  care  to  know  what  it  was  like. 

23.  Prague.— -Entrance  over  the  Bridge, 

A drawing  already  noticed,  of  the  highest  quality. 
The  lithograph,  No.  91,  of  the  other  side  of  the  tower  on 
the  right,  enables  us  to  walk  back  the  other  way  ; it 
quite  one  of  the  best  drawings  in  the  book. 

24.  Prague. — The  Stadthaus. 

Both  lovely,  and  essentially  Proutesque,  as  a drawing. 
Architecturally,  one  of  the  prettiest  possible  examples  of 
fourteenth  century  Gothic.  The  town  was  all,  more  or 
less,  like  that,  once — the  houses  beyond  have,  I suppose, 
been  built  even  since  the  siege. 


256 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


25.  Bamberg. 

I include  this  drawing  in  our  series,  first  for  its  lovely 
crowd  of  figures  ; and  secondly,  to  show  that  Prout  never 
attempts  to  make  anything  picturesque  that  naturally 
isn’t.  Domo  d’Ossola  and  Bologna  (47  and  64)  are  pic- 
turesque— in  the  drawings,  because  they  are  so  in  reality 
— and  heavy  Bamberg  remains  as  dull  as  it  pleases  to  be. 
This  strict  honesty  of  Prout’s  has  never  been  rightl}^  un- 
derstood, because  he  didn’t  often  draw  dull  things,  and 
gleaned  the  picturesque  ones  out  of  every  hole  and  cor- 
ner ; so  that  everybody  used  to  think  it  was  he  who  had 
made  them  picturesque.  But,  as  aforesaid,  he  is  really 
as  true  as  a mirror. 

26.  Nuremberg,  Church  of  St.  , at. 

Of  the  best  time,  and  certainly  the  fullest  exj^res- 
sion  ever  given  of  the  character  of  the  church.  But  the 
composition  puzzled  him,  the  house  corner  on  left  com- 
ing in  too  abruptly,  and  the  sketch  falls  short  of  his  best 
qualities  ; he  gets  fatigued  with  the  richness  in  excess 
over  so  large  a mass,  and  feels  that  nothing  of  foreground 
will  carry  it  out  in  harmony. 

28.  The  Drachenfels. 

When  I said  that  Turner  and  Prout  stood  by  themselves 
in  power  of  rendering  magnitude,  I don’t  mean  on  the 
same  level,  of  course,  but  in  perfect  sympathy  ; and  Tur- 
ner himself  would  have  looked  with  more  than  admiration 
— with  real  respect — at  this  quiet  little  study.  I have  never 
seen  any  other  picture  or  drawing  which  gave  so  intensely 
the  main  truths  of  the  breadth  and  prolonged  distances 
of  the  great  river,  and  the  scale  and  standing  of  tbe  rock, 
as  compared  with  the  buildings  and  woods  at  its"  feet. 

The  “ standing  ” of  the  rock,  I say  especially  ; for  it  is  in 
great  part  by  the  perfect  sculpture  and  build  of  its  but-  • 
tresses — (the  “ articulation  ” w'hich,  I have  just  said,  Field-  | 
ing  shunned  as  too  troublesome)  that  the  effect,  or  rather 
information,  of  magnitude  is  given.  i 


NOTES  ON  PEOUT. 


257 


And  next  to  this  rock  drawing,  the  clear  houses  and 
trees,  and  exquisite  little  boat — examined  well — complete 
the  story  of  mountain  power  by  their  intense  realit3\ 
Take  the  lens  to  them — there  is  no  true  enjoyment  to  be 
had  without  attention,  either  from  pictures,  or  the  truth 
itself. 

23.  Islands  on  the  Ehine. 

First,  the  power  of  the  Dragon  rock — then  of  the 
noble  river.  It  seems  to  have  been  an  especially  interest- 
ing scene  this,  to  good  painters.  Oue  of  the  most  elab- 
orate pieces  of  drawing  ever  executed  by  Turner  was 
from  this  spot. 

30.  The  Pfalz. 

Hurried  a little,  and  too  black  in  distance — but  I in- 
clude it  in  the  series  for  a most  interesting  bit  of  compo- 
sition in  it.  The  building,  from  this  point  of  view,  had 
a disagreeable  look  of  a church-tower  surrounded  by 
pepper-boxes.  He  brings  it  into  a mass,  and  makes  a 
fortress  of  it,  by  the  shadow  on  the  mountain  to  the 
right  of  the  tower,  almost  as  dark  as  a bit  of  roof. 

32.  WOKMS. 

An  early  drawing — the  only  one  included  in  this  series 
— is  to  be  compared  with  the  careful  w^ater-color.  No.  31. 

35.  Ulm. 

A beautiful  drawing  of  one  of  the  most  interesting 
street  fountains  in  Germany.  It  is  given  in  this  sketch, 
as  usual,  with  entire  care  and  feeling  of  its  proportion. 
The  water-color  drawing,  No.  36,  shows  the  little  intei- 
est  he  took  in  copying  for  the  Exhibition,  knowing  that 
the  British  mind  w^as  not  to  be  impressed  by  proportion, 
and  only  cared  for  getting  things  into  their  frames. 
The  lithograph,  No.  90,  is,  on  the  contrary,  one  of  his 
most  careful  works,  and  quite  true  to  the  place,  when  I 
saw  it  in  1835.  I suppose  it  is  all  pulled  down,  and 
17 


258 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT. 


made  an  “ esplanade  ” of  by  this  time.  (See  “ Seven 
Lamps/’  p.  182,  in  Appendix  I.) 

37  and  33.  Swiss  and  German  Costumes. 

I never  can  understand  how  these  groups  are  ever  de- 
signed or  caught,  and  how  they  are  built  up,  one  by 
one.  No  painter  who  can  do  it  ever  tells  us  how. 

39.  Chillon. 

The  only  drawing  I ever  saw  which  gave  the  real  rela- 
tion of  the  castle  to  the  size  of  the  mountain  behind  it. 

40.  The  Dungeon  of  Chillon. 

I must  leave  the  reader  now  to  make  what  he  may  of  ' 
this  and  the  following  drawings  as  far  as  47 : all  of  ^ 
them,  to  people  who  know  the  old  look  of  the  places,  i 
will  be  interesting  ; but  I have  no  time  to  enlarge  on  , i 
them. 

41.  Montreux.  I 

i 

42.  Waterfall  under  the  Dent  du  Midi,  in  the  Rhone  Valley. 

43.  Village  of  Martigny. 

46.  Brieg. 

j 

47.  Domo  d’Ossola.  | 

One  of  the  most  exemplary  in  the  room,  for  intense  . ' 
fidelity  to  the  place,  and  lovely  composition  of  living  j 
groups.  Note  the  value  of  the  upright  figure  in  the 
balcony  on  the  left,  in  breaking  up  and  enriching  the 
mass,  and  joining  it  with  the  rest. 

48.  Como. 

Enough  dwelt  on  in  the  preface. 

49.  The  Monument  of  Can  Signorio  della  Scala,  at  Verona. 

Note  that  the  low  sarcophagus  on  the  left,  of  much 
finer  time  than  the  richer  tomb,  has  on  its  side  a has- 


NOTES  ON  PROUT, 


259 


relief  representiDg  the  Madonna  enthroned  between  two 
angels,  a third  angel  presents  to  her  the  dead  knight’s 
soul,  kneeling. 

50.  The  largo  drawing  of  the  subject.  No.  50,  has  lost  all 
these  particulars.  Was  it  all  Prout’s  fault,  shall  we  say  ? 
Was  there  anyone,  in  his  time,  of  English  travellers,  who 
would  have  thanked  him  for  a madonna  and  a dead  old 
Scaliger,  done  ever  so  clearly  ? 

5G.  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the  West. 

57.  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the  East. 

58.  St.  Michael’s  Mount,  Normandy. 

I have  put  No.  58  in  this  eccentric  manner,  after  the 
Ducal  Palace,  that  the  reader  may  feel,  for  good  and  all, 
Prout’s  intense  appreciation  of  local  character — his  gayety 
with  the  gay,  and  his  strength  with  the  strong.  Cornish- 
bred,  his  own  heart  is  indeed  in  the  rocks,  and  towers, 
and  sands  of  the  fraternal  Norman  shore — and  it  fails 
him  in  Venice,  where  the  conditions  alike  of  her  mas- 
quing  and  her  majesty  were  utterly  strange  to  him. 
Still,  the  sense  of  light,  and  motion,  and  splendor  above 
the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni  ; and  of  gloom,  and  iron-fastness, 
and  poverty,  midst  the  silent  sands  of  Avranches,  are  ren- 
dered by  the  mirror  of  him,  as  if  you  had  but  turned  its 
face  from  sun  to  shade. 

The  St.  Michael’s  is  an  entirely  grand  drawing.  The 
St.  Raphael’s — for  that  is  indeed  the  other  name  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  ^ — on  this  side,  has  many  faults  ; but  is 
yet,  out  and  out,  the  best  Ducal  Palace  that  has  as  yet 
been  done.  It  is  not  an  architectural  drawing — does  not 


* The  angel  Michael  is  the  angle  statue  on  the  southwest  (seen  in 
No.  56),  with  the  inscription,  “ With  my  sword  I guard  the  good,  and 
cleanse  the  evil.”  The  angel  Raphael  holds  in  his  hands  the  nations’ 
prayer  to  him,  “Raphael,  the  dreadful  (“  reverende  ”),  make  thou  the 
deep  quiet,  we  beseech  thee.” 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


in  the  least  pretend  to  be.  No  one  had  ever  drawn  the  trace- 
ries of  the  Dacal  Palace  till  I did  myself.  Canaletto,  in 
his  way,  is  just  as  false  as  Prout — Turner  no  better.  Not 
one  of  them  painted  anything  but  their  general  impres- 
sions ; and  not  a soul  in  England  knew  that  there  was  a 
system  in  Venetian  architecture  at  all,  until  I made  the 
measured  (to  half  and  quarter  inches)  elevation  of  it  (No. 
105),  and  gave  the  analysis  of  its  tracery  mouldings  and 
their  development,  from  those  of  the  Franciscans  at  the 
Frari  (“  Stones  of  Venice,”  vol.  ii.).  This  study  of  Prout’s, 
then,  I repeat,  does  not  pretend  to  architectural  accu- 
racy ; and  it  has  even  one  very  considerable  fault.  Prout’s 
mind  had  been  so  formed  among  buildings  solid  at  the 
base,  and  aerial  at  the  top,  that  he  not  only  could  not 
enjoy,  he  could  not  even  see^  the  national  audacity  of 
the  great  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  in  supporting  its 
wall  on,  virtually,  two  rows  of  marble  piles  ; and,  at  the 
further  end,  just  where  the  shafts  at  the  angle  let  the 
winds  blow  through  them  as  frankly  as  the  timbers  of 
Calais  pier,*  he  blackens  them  all  up  inside,  as  if  the 
backing  wall  were  solid  and  the  arches  were  onl}'  niches. 


* The  real  and  marvellous  structure  of  the  angle  is  admirably 
shown  in  the  photograph,  No.  lOG^f,  though  the  quantity  of  light 
penetrating  the  shafts  is  a little  exaggerated  in  effect  by  uniting 
with  the  light  sides  oi:  the  shafts.  Taking  the  lens  to  the  photo- 
graph, you  will  see  this  line  is  destroyed  by  the  modern  gas-lamj) 
stuck  across  the  Italian  sculpture,  and  you  may  admire  at  leisure 
the  other  improvements  made  by  the  art  of  the  nineteenth  century 
on  the  effect  of  the  piazzetta  The  combination  of  the  fore  and 
mizzenmasts  of  the  huge  steamer  whose  hull,  with  its  boat,  blocks 
out  the  whole  lagoon  ; and  of  the  upright  gas-lamp,  with  the 
pillar  of  St.  Mark— the  introduction  of  the  steamer  s painted 
funnel  to  form  a foundation  for  the  tower  of  San  Giorgio— the 
bathing  establishment  anchored  beyond  the  pillars,  just  where 
the  Bucentaur  used  to  lie  close  to  the  quay  to  receive  the  Doge  ; 
and,  finally,  the  bills  pasted  on  the  sheds  at  the  base  of  St. 
Mark's  column,  advising  us  of  improving  wmrks  of  a liberal  tone, 
such  as  the  “ Storia  della  Natura,”  and  the  “ Misteri  della  In- 
quisizione  di  Spagna.”  In  this  same  Loggia  of  Sansovino’s,  against 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


261 


For  all  that,  there  never  was  anything  so  true  to  the 
general  splendor  and  life  of  the  palace  done  before,  nor 
ever  will  be  again/* *'' 

There  are  two  points — technical  both  and  spiritual 
Potli — which  the  reader  must  note  in  this  drawing. 

The  first,  how  thankfid  Front  is  for  the  clusters  of 
doves  along  the  upper  line  of  the  cornice.  “ They  might 
as  well  be  jackdaws,”  you  think?  Well,  as  aforesaid, 
Front  is  not  a colorist,  else  he  would  have  made  his 
boats  black  and  his  doves  gray  ; but  then  he  would  have 
been  Carpaccio,  and  not  Front.  This  is  really  all  you 
can  expect  him  to  do  for  a dove,  with  his  poor  Cumber- 
land plumbago  ; and,  after  all,  the  glory  of  the  creatures 
is  not  in  being  pigeons,  but  in  being  Venetians.  Swal- 
low or  sparrow,  daw  or  dove,  sea-gull  by  Achilles’  isle  or 
chough  by  Cornish  cliff — that  they  are  living  with  us  by 
shore  and  altar,  under  cottage  eaves  and  around  palace 
council  chambers,  that  is  their  glory — and,  if  we  knew  it, 
our  peace. 

The  other  point  is  more  definitely  technical,  yet  has  its 
lesson  ill  other  directions  also.  I have  already  again  and 
again  insisted  on  Front’s  way  of  taking  up  his  stitches, 
and  carrying  one  part  of  his  work  into  another.  Look 
back  to  what  is  said  of  the  Como  in  preface.  He  is  no 
more  content  with  his  Ducal  Falace  till  he  has  got  it  well 
into  fugue  with  its  crowd  than  he  was  with  these  old 
houses  by  the  harbor.  He  won’t  break  the  corner  of  its 


wliicli  these  sheds  are  built,  the  “ Misteri  ” of  the  Government 
Lottery  are  also  revealed  weekly  to  the  popular  mind. 

* And  in  the  great  drawing  (No.  60)  lent  by  Lord  Coleridge  the 
upper  story  is  singularly  and  gracefully  accurate  in  the  pinnacled 
Gothic  of  its  central  window,  and  in  the  various  elevations  and 
magnitudes  of  the  rest.  The  two  upper  windows  in  the  shade  at 
the  nearest  angle  are  the  oldest  portion  of  the  Palace  visible,  and 
Front  has  carefully  noted  their  different  curve.  The  bright  and 
busy  figures  are  true  to  old  times  only,  for  the  building  is  now  being 
restored,  and  no  man  with  a heart  will  ever  draw  the  patched 
skeleton  of  it  more. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


arcade,  but  just  flutes,  as  it  were,  a single  pillar  with  the 
mast  of  a boat,  and  then  carries  the  mast  down — stopping 
the  arch-mouldings  for  it,  observe,  as  he  draws  them,  so 
deliberate  is  he,  and,  getting  well  down  so  to  his  figures, 
rivets  the  rent  of  the  canal  across  with  the  standing  one, 
just  under  Michael  Steno’s  central  window,  and  then  car- 
ries all  away  to  the  right,  with  the  sitting  figures  and  lev- 
elled sails  in  harmony  with  the  courses  of  the  palace,  and 
to  the  left,  with  the  boats.  Hide  one  of  these  founda- 
tional forms  with  your  hand,  and  see  how  the  palace  goes 
to  pieces ! There  are  many  compositions  in  the  room 
more  felicitous  ; but  there  is  no  other  in  which  the  op- 
j^osite  influence  to  the  “little  rift  within  the  lute  ” — the 
stitch  in  time  that  saves  nine — is  so  delicately  and  so  in- 
tensely illustrated  as  by  the  service  of  this  single  boat- ' 
spar  to  every  shaft  of  the  whole  Ducal  Palace. 

With  respect  to  these  Venice  drawings  there  are  two 
metaph}’'sical  problems — in  my  own  mind,  of  extreme  in-  , 
solubility — and  on  which  I therefore  do  not  enlarge, 
namely,  why  Prout,  practiced  among  all  manner  of  Corn- 
ish and  Kentish  boats,  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  draw 
a gondola  ; and  the  second,  why,  not  being  able  to  draw 
a gondola,  he  yet  never  gave  the  grand  Adriatic  fishing-  ' 
boat,  with  its  colored  sail,  instead.  These,  and  other  ! 
relative  questions  still  more  abstruse — as,  for  instance, 
why  he  could  draw  the  domes  of  Dresden  rightly,  and 
yet  made  the  Madonna  della  Salute  look  like  the  Na- 
tional Gallery  or  Bethlehem  Hospital — I must  for  the  ; 
present  leave  for  the  reader’s  own  debate,  and  only  at 
speed  give  some  account  of  the  points  to  be  illustrated  | 
by  the  supplementary  drawings.  ] 

People  often  ask  me — and  people  who  have  been  long  ' 
at  Venice  too  — of  the  subject  No.  55,  lohere  those  square  j 
pillars  are,  and  what  they  are.  The  corner  of  the  Piaz-  ' 
zetta  from  which  this  view  is  taken  was  once  the  sweetest 
of  all  sacred  niches  in  that  great  marble  withdra wing- 
room  of  the  Piazzetta  of  St.  Mark’s.  My  old  sketch.  No. 
107,  shows  approximately  the  color  of  the  marble  walls 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT, 


263 


and  pavement  of  it,  and  the  way  the  white  flowers  of  the 
Greek  pillars — purest  B^'^zantine  — shone  through  the 
dark  spots  of  lichen.  The  Daguerreotype,  No.  114, 
taken  under  my  own  direction,  gives  the  light  and  shade 
of  them,  chosen  just  where  the  western  sunlight  catches 
the  edge  of  the  cross  at  the  base  of  the  nearer  one  ; and 
my  study,  No.  108,  shows  more  fully  the  character  of  the 
Byzantine  chiselling  — entirely  freehand,  flinging  the 
marble  acanthus-leaves  here  and  there  as  they  would 
actually  grow.  It  is  through  work  of  this  kind  that  the 
divine  Greek  power  of  the  days  of  Hesiod  came  down  to 
animate  the  mosaic  workers  in  St.  Mark’s,  in  the  elev- 
enth century. 

They  worked  under  a Greek  princess,  of  w’hom  the 
reader  will  find  some  legend  (though  }"et  I have  not  been 
able  to  do  more  than  begin  her  story)  in  the  second  num- 
ber of  “ St.  Mark’s  Best.”  * In  the  third  I have  given  some 
account  of  the  entire  series  of  mosaics  which  were  com- 
pleted by  her  husband  under  the  influence  of  his  Greek 
queen  (true  queen.,  mind  you,  at  that  time,  the  Duke  of 
Venice  then  wearing  the  king’s  diadem,  not  the  republi- 
can cap) ; and  I besought  my  readers  at  Venice  and  else- 
where to  help  me  to  get  some  faithful  record  of  these 
mosaics  before  they  perished  by  modern  restoration.  I 
have  never  made  a more  earnest  appeal  for  anything — 
and  indeed  I believe,  had  it  been  for  a personal  gift — 
another  Splugen  drawing,  or  the  like — I should  have  got 
it  by  this  time  easily  enough.  But  there  are  always 
twenty  people  who  will  do  what  they  feel  to  be  kind,  for 
one  who  will  take  my  advice  about  an  important  public 
object.  And — if  they  only  knew  it — the  one  real  kind- 


* My  readers  continually  complain  that  they  can’t  get  my 
presently  issuing  hooks.  There  is  not  a bookseller  in  London, 
however,  who  is  not  perfectly  well  aware  that  the  said  books  are 
always  to  be  had  by  a post  card  sent  to  my  publisher,  Mr.  G. 
Allen,  Sunnyside,  Orpington,  Kent,  to  whom  subscriptions  for  the 
object  stated  in  the  text  are  to  be  sent  (or  the  books  may  be 
had  of  the  Fine  Art  Society). 


264 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


ness  they  can  show  to  me  is  in  listening  to  me — under- 
standing, in  the  first  place,  that  I know  my  business 
better  at  sixty  than  I did  at  five-and-twenty  ; and  in  the 
second,  that  my  happiness,  such  as  yet  remains  to  me, 
does  not  at  all  consist  in  the  things  about  me  in  my 
own  parlor,  but  in  the  thought  that  the  principles  I have 
taught  are  being  acted  upon,  and  the  great  buildings  and 
great  scenes  I have  tried  to  describe  saved,  so  far  as  may 
yet  be  possible,  from  destruction  and  desecration.  At 
this  very  hour,  the  committees  of  Venetian  builders  are 
meeting  to  plot  the  total  destruction,  and  re-erection 
according  to  their  own  notions,  and  for  their  owm  emolu- 
ment, of  the  entire  west  front  of  St.  Mark’s — that  which 
Barbarossa  knelt  under,  and  before  which  Dandolo  took 
his  vow  for  Palestine ! And  in  the  meantime  the  Chris- 
tian populace  of  all  Europe  is  quarrelling  about  their 
little  parish  reredoses  and  wax-candles  ! * 

And  so  it  comes  to  pass,  that  the  floor  of  St.  Mark’s  is 
already  destroyed,  together  with  the  north  and  south 
sides  ; only  the  west  front  and  roof  mosaics  are  yet  left, 
and  these  are  instantly  threatened.  I have  got  an  abso- 
lutely faithful  and  able  artist,  trained  by  Mr.  Burne 
Jones,  to  undertake  the  copying  of  the  whole  series  of 
mosaics  yet  uninjured.  He  is  doing  this  for  love  and 
mere  journeyman’s  wages — how  carefully  and  thorough- 
ly the  three  examples  in  this  room  (114,  115,  116)  will 
enough  show ; but  he  has  been  six  months  at  work  alone, 
unable  to  employ  assistants,  and  all  that  I have  yet  got 
for  him  by  the  eagerest  appeals  I could  make  at  Venice 
and  here  is — some  hundred  and  seventy  pounds,  and  half 
of  that  from  a single  personal  friend  ! f 

* It  may  perhaps  not  be  quite  too  late  to  contradict  a report  that 
appeared  in  some  Irish  paper,  that  I had  been  lately  in  Dublin, 
giving  some  opinion  or  other  about  reredoses.  I have  not  been 
in  Ireland  these  ten  years — never  shall  be  in  Ireland  more — and 
care  no  more  about  any  modern  churches  or  church  furniture 
than  about  the  drop-scene  at  Drury  Lane — not  so  much  indeed, 
if  the  truth  were  all  told. 

f £ 5.  by  report  from  Mr.  Allen,  of  13th  November. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


265 


I will  have  a little  circular  drawu  up,  stating  these  and 
other  relative  facts  clearly,  before  the  close  of  the  pres- 
ent exhibition.  Before  its  opening,  I can  allow  myself 
now  little  more  than  the  mere  explanation  of  what  it 
contains. 

And  now  I really  haven’t  time  to  talk  any  more,  and 
yet  I’ve  ever  so  much  to  say,  if  I could,  of  the  following 
drawings  at  Arqua  and  Nuremberg,  77  and  70.  I must 
at  least  sa}^  at  once  why  these,  like  Venice  and  St.  Mi- 
chael’s Mount,  go  side  by  side. 

In  the  first  place,  I believe  that  the  so-called  Petrarchs 
house  at  Arqua  (67)  can  only  be  built  on  the  site  of  the 
real  one — it  can’t  be  of  Petrarch’s  time  ; but  the  tomb  is 
true,  and  just  looking  from  that,  to  the  building  of  Diir- 
er’s  house  (70) — which  is  assuredly  authentic — and  of 
Rubens’s,  No.  81,  what  a quantity  of  the  lives  of  the  men 
we  are  told  by  these  three  slight  sketches  ! One  of  the 
things  I hope  to  do  at  Sheffield  is  to  get  a connected  and 
systematic  series  of  drawings  of  the  houses  and  the 
tombs  of  great  men.  The  tombs,  of  course,  generally  tell 
more  of  their  successors  than  of  themselves  ; but  the 
two  together  will  be  historical  more  than  many  volumes. 
Their  houses,  I say  ; yes,  and  the  things  they  saw  from 
their  houses — quite  the  chief  point  with  many  of  the  best 
men  and  women.  Casa  Guidi  windows,  often  of  much 
more  im|3ort  than  Casa  Guidi ; and  in  this  house  of  Al- 
bert’s, its  own  cross-timbers  are  little  matter,  but  those 
Nuremberg  walls  around  it  are  everything. 

73.  Kelso. 

I now  gather  together,  as  I best  may,  the  supplement- 
ary drawings  which  have  come  in  since  I arranged  my 
series,  and  one  or  two  others  which  did  not  properl}^  be- 
long to  it.  This  one  of  Kelso  is  chiefly  valuable  as  show- 
ing his  mode  of  elementary  study  with  washes  of  two 
tints— one  warm,  the  other  a little  cooler.  The  system 
was  afterward  expanded  into  his  color  practice. 


266 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


74  Entrance  to  North  Transept  of  Rouen. 

Unfinished,  and  extremely  interesting,  as  showing  his 
method  of  rubbing  in  the  tint  with  the  stump  or  his  fin- 
ger, before  adding  the  pencil  hues. 

75.  Study  of  Dutch  Boats. 

These  boat  sketches  might  be  multiplied  countlessly 
— and  I would  fain  have  given  many  and  talked  much  of 
them,  but  have  neither  room  nor  time.  Note  in  this  the 
careful  warping  of  the  mast  by  the  strain  of  the  heavy 
sail. 

76.  Neudersdorf.  ) 

77.  Gdtenfels.  j 

Two  lovely  Rhine  realities  ; when  the  river  was  some- 
thing better  than  a steam-tramway. 

'78.  An  Old  Rhine  Bridge,  at  Rheinfelden. 

A favorite  Turner  subject,  and  di'awn  and  engraved 
with  great  cai*e  in  “ Modern  Painters.”  As  a Prout,  it  is 
inferior — small  in  manner  and  forced,  but,  as  usual, 
wholly  true  to  the  place. 

79.  Munich. 

Notable  chiefly  for  the  effort  made  to  draw  the  atten- 
tion away  from  the  ugly  arcade  under  the  houses  by  the 
crowd  of  near  figures.  Compare  the  insistance  on  beau- 
tiful arcades  in  the  Como  and  Domo  d’Ossola. 

80.  Ypres. 

Wholly  lovely,  and  to  be  classed  with  the  Abbeville 
and  Evreux  as  one  of  the  most  precious  records  of  former 
dom^tic  architecture. 

81.  Rubens’s  House,  Antwerp. 

The  kind  of  domestic  architecture  that  destroyed  all 
reverence  for  what  preceded  it,  and  brought  us  down 
to — what  we  are. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


267 


Note  the  beginning  of  modem  anatomies  and  sciences 
and  pseudo-classicalisms  in  the  monstrous  skulls  of 
beasts. 

82.  Caen.  \ 

83.  Falaise.  ) 

Two  of  the  most  careful  and  finished  pieces  of  his 
later  work,  but  rather  architectural  studies  than  jfictures, 
and  alas ! the  architecture  of  the  worst  school.  So  little 
can  the  taste  be  really  formed  without  study  of  sculpture 
as  the  queen  of  edifying  law.  See  notes  on  Supplement- 
ary Sketches. 

86.  Portico  di  Ottavia,  Rome. 

All  the  life  and  death  of  Rome  is  in  this  quite  invalu- 
able drawing ; but  I have  no  time  to  talk  of  the  life  and 
death  of  Rome,  and  perhaps  the  enlightened  modern 
student  would  only  care  for  a view  of  the  new  tobacco 
manufactory  under  the  Palatine. 

87.  Well  at  Strasburg. 

We  don’t  want  wells  neither,  in  these  days  of  wisdom, 
having  Thirlmere  turned  on  for  us,  or  Loch  Katrine,  at 
our  pleasure.  But — from  the  days  of  Jacob’s  well  till — 
thirty  years  ago,  such  things  were  pleasant  in  human 
eyes. 

88.  Well  at  Strasburg. 

I close  our  Prout  pencilling  with  seven  examples  of  his 
superb  work  on  stone ; all  by  his  own  hand,  and  as  liter- 
ally and  thoroughly  his,  touch  for  touch,  as  the  pencil 
sketches  themselves,  and  even  more  wonderful  in  their 
easy  mastery  of  the  more  difficult  material. 

What  a disgrace  it  is  to  modern  landscape  painters 
that  this  book  of  Prout’s,  Sketches  in  Flanders  and  Ger- 
many,” should  remain,  to  this  day,  the  only  work  of  true 
artistic  value  produced,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  artist’s  own 
hand,  purchasable  by  the  public  of  Europe,  in  illustra- 
tion of  their  national  architecture  ! 


268 


NOTES  ON  PEOUT, 


89.  Well  at  Nueemberg. 

This  study  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  but  also  one 
of  the  most  imaginative,  that  ever  Prout  made — highly 
exceptional  and  curious. 

The  speciality  of  Nuremberg  is,  that  its  walls  are  of 
stone,  but  its  windows,  especially  those  in  the  roof,  for 
craning  up  merchandise — are  of  wood.  All  the  project- 
ing windows  and  all  the  dormers  in  this  square  are  of 
wood.  But  Prout  could  not  stand  the  inconsistency,  and 
deliberately  petrifies  all  the  wood.  Very  naughty  of  him  ! 
I have  nothing  to  say  in  extenuation  of  this  offence  ; and, 
alas ! secondly,  the  houses  have,  in  reality,  only  three 
stories,  and  he  has  put  a fourth  on,  out  of  his  inner 
consciousness  ! 

I never  knew  him  do  such  a thing  before  or  since  ; but 
the  end  of  it  is,  that  this  drawing  of  Nuremberg  is  im- 
mensely more  Nurembergy  than  the  town  itself,  and  a 
quite  glorious  piece  of  medieeval  character. 

90.  Ulm. 

91.  Prague. — Tower  of  the  Gate. 

92.  Prague. — Stadthaus. — The  realization  of  sketch  No. 

93.  Brunswick. — Bathhaus. 

94.  Coblentz. 

I have  always  held  this  lithograph  to  show  all  ProuPs 
qualities  in  supreme  perfection,  and  proudly  finish  our 
series  of  pencil  and  chalk  work  with  it. 

We  now  come  to  a large  series  of  earty  color  studies, 
promising  better  things  than  ever  came  of  them  ; and  then 
the  examples  of  Prout,  for  which  we  are  simply  to  blame 
the  public  taste  he  had  to  meet,  and  not  him.  There  were 
no  pre-Raphaelites  in  those  days.  On  the  walls  at  the 
Scala  Palace,  in  that  sketch  of  Verona,  No.  49,  Prout  has 
written,  conscientiously,  “ brick  ; ” but  do  you  think  if  he 


NOTES  ON  PROUT, 


269 


had  painted  it  of  brick,  anybody  would  have  bought  the 
drawing  ? Since  those  days,  all  the  work  of  Walker,  of 
Boyce,  of  Alfred  Hunt,  of  Albert  Goodwin,  of  John  Brett 
(the  whole  school  of  them,  mind  you,  founded  first  on  the 
strong  pre-Raphaelite  veracities  which  were  all  but  shrieked 
down  at  the  first  seeing  of  them,  and  which  I had  to  stand 
up  alone  for,  against  a whole  national  clamor  of  critical 
vituperation),  all  that  affectionate  and  laborious  painting 
from  nature  has  familiarized  you,  now,  with  birds,  and 
ivy,  and  blossoms,  and  berries,  and  mosses,  and  rushes, 
and  ripjiles,  and  trickles,  and  wrinkles,  and  twinkles  ; 
and,  of  course,  poor  old  Prout’s  conventional  blue  wash 
won’t  look  its  best  afterward.  Be  thankful  to  them  (and 
somewhat  also — I say  it  not  in  pride,  but  as  a part  of  the 
facts — to  “Modern  Painters”  and  me),  and  indulgent  to 
the  old  workman,  who  did  the  best  he  could  for  his  cus- 
tomers, and  the  most  he  could  for  his  money. 

95.  The  English  Cottage. — See  preface. 

96.  Launceston. 

Had  this  drawing  been  brought  to  me  as  an  early 
Turner,  I should  have  looked  twice,  and  thrice,  at  it  be- 
fore saying  no.  If  Prout  had  only  had  just  ever  so  little 
more  pride,  and  some  interest  in  British  history,  he  would 
have  been  a painter,  indeed  ! and  no  mean  pencil  draughts- 
man. But  he  just  missed  it — and  a miss  is  as  bad  as  a 
mile,  or  a million  of  miles  ; and  I say  nothing  more  of  the 
series  of  water-colors  here,  except  only  that  many  a good 
lesson  may  be  learned  from  them  in  chiaroscuro,  and  in 
flat  tinting,  by  modest  students. 


270 


NOTES  ON  PMOUT. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  DRAWINGS. 

There  are — or  ought  to  be,  if  I get  them  together  in 
time — eleven  of  my  own,  namely  ; 

104.  Calais. 

104a.  The  Aventine. 

105.  Ducal  Palace  and  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

106.  Ducal  Palace,  Foliage  of  Southwest  Angle. 

107.  Pillar  of  the  Piazzetta. 

108.  Chiaroscuro  Study  of  the  Same  Pillar. 

109.  The  Casa  d’Oro. 

110.  Window  on  the  Grand  Canal. 

111.  Abbeville  Crocket. 


112.  Oak-leaf.  ' 

113.  Moss  AND  OXALIS. 

I meant,  when  first  this  exhibition  was  planned,  to  have 
made  it  completely  illustrative  of  the  French  flamboyant 
architecture,  which  Prout  had  chiefly  studied  ; but  I have 
been  too  much  interrupted  by  other  duties ; and  I can 
only  now  point  out,  once  more — after  thirty  years  of  reit- 
erating this  vital  fact  to  architects  in  vain — that  until 
they  are  themselves  absolute  masters  of  sculptural  sur- 
face, founded  on  natural  forms,  they  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  any  good  work,  in  any  school. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


271 


Sculptural  surface^  observe : They  fancy  they  have 
chosen  an  ornament  when  they  have  got  its  outline  ; but 
in  sculpture  the  surface  is  everything  ; the  outline  follows, 
and  is  compelled  by  it.  Thus,  in  the  piece  of  Ducal  Palace 
sculpture,  No.  106,  the  entire  value  of  it  depends  on  the 
chiaroscuro  of  its  surfaces  ; and  it  would  be  as  absurd  to 
think  of  sketching  it  without  shade,  as  a piece  of  rippled 
lagoon.  And  in  every  minutest  finial  and  crocket  of  that 
French  flamboyant,  the  surfaces  are  studied  to  a perfec- 
tion not  less  subtle,  though  relieved  by  more  violent 
shade.  The  fast  study,  No.  Ill,  shows  the  action  of  the 
curved  stems  and  flow  of  surfaces  in  one  of  the  crockets 
of  Abbeville.  See  i)hotograph  No.  6,  and  the  study  of 
oak-leaves.  No.  112,  will  show  how  the  natural  forms  of 
vegetation  lend  themselves  to  every  need  of  such  atten- 
tive design.  I have  painted  this  bit  of  leafage  in  two 
stages,  showing — if  anyone  cares  to  know  it — the  way 
Hunt  used  his  body  color  ; laying  it  first  with  extreme 
care  in  form  and  gradation,  but  in  f)ure  white  ; and  then 
glazing  over  it — never  disturbing  it,  or  mixing  it  in  the 
slightest  degree  with  his  clear  color.  And  it  is  only  by 
this  management  of  opaque  color  that  architectural  detail 
can  be  drawn  at  speed,  with  any  useful  result.  See  the 
bit  of  honeysuckle  ornament,  for  instance,  at  the  top  of 
the  pillar  in  No.  108,  and  fancy  the  time  it  would  have 
taken  to  express  the  bossy  roundness  of  it  in  any  other 
way.  All  disputes  about  the  use  of  body  color,  begin 
and  end  in  the  “ to  be  or  not  to  be  ” of  accurate  form. 

Then  there  are  three  drawings  of  St.  Mark’s  mosaics 
by  Mr.  Kooke  : 

114.  Floral  Decoration. 

115.  Madonna  and  David. 

116.  The  Prophets. 

Then  some  variously  illustrated  photographs,  etc. 


272 


NOTES  ON  PBOUT, 


117.  Abbeville. 

118.  PiCTUKE  OF  Abbeville. 

106a.  Venice,  the  Piazzetta. 

11.  Lithogkaph  of  Modern  Strasbueg. 

119.  (?)  Improvements  in  Modern  London, 

Then,  in  the  glass  case,  there  is  a little  bit  of  real  Vene- 
tian sixteenth  century  silk- work — put  there  to  show  pre- 
cisely what  Shakespeare  meant  by  “ Valance  of  Venice  gold 
in  needlework  ” (“  Taming  of  the  Shrew  ” );  and  secondly, 
to  show  the  use  of  minute  points  of  color — no  less  than  of 
form  in  decoration  carried  on  ; and  finally,  there  is  the 
Meissonier,  above  referred  to,  Napoleon,  in  1814,  on  the 
Chaussee  of  Vitry,  just  after  the  battle  of  Avcis-sur-Aube. 

“ The  French  horsemen,  though  inferior  to  none  in  the 
world  for  audacity  and  prowess,  were  overmatched  by 
their  opponents  and  driven  back  to  the  bridge  of  Ards. 
Napoleon,  who  was  on  the  other  side,  instantly  rode  for- 
ward to  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  already  all  but  choked 
up  with  fugitives,  and  drawing  his  sword,  exclaimed, 

‘ Let  me  see  which  of  you  will  pass  before  me  ! * These 
words  arrested  the  flight,  and  the  division  Friant  tracers-  • 
ing  the  streets  of*  Arcis,  in  double-quick  time  passed  the 
bridge,  formed  on  either  side  of  its  other  extremity,  and 
by  their  heavy  Are  drove  back  the  allied  horse. 

* % ^ ^ * 

“ Napoleon  was  repeatedly  in  imminent  danger,  nearly 
all  his  staff  were  killed  or  wounded.  ‘ Fear  nothing,’ 
said  he,  to  the  generals  who  urged  him  to  retire  : ‘ the 
bullet  is  not  yet  cast  which  is  to  kill  me.’  He  seemed  to 
court  rather  than  fear  death,  his  air  was  resolute  but  som- 
bre, and  as  long  as  the  battle  raged,  by  the  light  of  the 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


273 


burning  houses  behind  and  the  flash  of  the  enemies’  guns 
in  front,  he  continued  to  face  the  hostile  batteries, 

^ * Hi  4:  * ❖ 

“On  leaving  Ards,  instead  of  taking  the  road  to  Chalons 
or  to  Paris,  he  moved  on  the  Chaussee  of  Vitry,  direct 
toward  the  Ehine.  His  letter  to  the  Empress  Marie 
Louise  was  in  these  terms  : 

“ ‘ My  love,  I have  been  for  some  days  constantly  on 
horseback  ; on  the  20th  I took  Arcis-sur-Aube.  The 
enemy  attacked  me  there  at  eight  in  the  evening.  I 
beat  him  the  same  evening.  I took  two  guns  and  retook 
two.  The  next  day  the  enemy’s  army  put  itself  in  array 
to  protect  the  march  of  its  columns  on  Bar-sur-Aube, 
and  I resolved  to  approach  the  Marne  and  its  environs. 
This  evening  I shall  be  at  St.  Dizier.  Farewell,  my  love. 
Embrace  my  son.’”  (See  “Alison,”  vol.  x.,  pp.  396  to 
406.) 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a more  perfect  example  of 
the  French  realistic  school  than  this  picture.  It  is,  of 
course,  conventional,  and  founded  on  photographic  effect 
— the  white  horse  in  reality  would  have  looked  like  a 
ghost  in  the  twilight,  and  not  one  of  the  details  of  the 
housings  been  in  the  least  visible — had  these  been  so, 
much  more  should  the  details  of  the  landscape  have  been. 
But  in  its  kind  it  is  without  rivalship,  and  I purpose  that 
it  shall  remain  in  St.  George’s  schools — for  a monument 
of  War-sorrow,  where  War  has  been  unjust. 

18 


II. -HUNT. 


142.  The  Butteefly. 

Before  saying  anything  more  of  the  Hunt  series,  I want 
my  readers  once  more  clearly  to  understand  what  I have 
brought  it  here  for  ; namely,  to  show  them  what  real 
painting  is,  as  such,  wholly  without  inquiry  concerning  its 
sentiment  or  story.  The  Prouts  are  here  for  an  exactly 
opposite  reason — not  at  all  to  show  you  what  mere  pencil- 
ling is,  as  such — but  what  it  can  pencil  for  us  of  European 
scenery  and  history.  Whereas  this  butterfly  is  here,  not 
at  all  to  teach  you  anything  you  didn’t  know  about  but- 
terflies ; nor  the  peach  and  grapes  to  teach  you  anything 
you  didn’t  know  about  those  familiar  fruits  ; nor  even  that 
boy  in  his  father’s  boots  to  teach  you  anything  you  didn’t 
know  before  about  boys  and  boots.  They  are  here  merely 
to  show  you  what  is  meant  by  Painting,  as  distinguished 
from  daubing,  from  plastering,  from  rough  casting,  from 
chromo-tinting,  from  tray- varnishing,  from  paper- staining, 
and  in  general  from  the  sort  of  things  that  people  in  gen- 
eral do  when  you  put  a brush  into  their  hands,  and  a pot 
within  reach  of  them. 

Now,  that  little  brown-red  butterfly  (which  Mr.  Gurney 
is  so  fortunate  in  possessing)  is  a piece  of  real  painting  ; 
and  it  is  as  good  as  Titian  or  anybody  else  ever  did.  And 
if  you  can  enjoy  it  j^ou  can  enjoy  Titian  and  all  other 
good  painters  ; and  if  you  can’t  see  anything  in  it,  you 
can’t  see  anything  in  them,  and  it  is  all  affectation  and 
pretence  to  say  that  you  care  about  them. 

And  with  this  butterfly,  in  the  drawing  I put  first, 
please  look  at  the  mug  and  loaf  in  the  one  I have  put  last, 
of  the  Hunt  Series,  No.  171.  The  whole  art  of  painting 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


275 


is  ill  that  mug — as  the  fisherman’s  genius  was  in  the  bot- 
tle. If  you  can  feel  how  beautiful  it  is,  how  ethereal,  how 
heathery  and  heavenly,  as  well  as  to  the  uttermost,  muggy  : 
you  have  an  eye  for  color,  and  can  enjoy  heather,  heaven, 
and  everything  else  below  and  above.  If  not,  you  must 
enjoy  what  you  can,  contentedly^  but  it  won’t  be  paint- 
ing ; and  in  mugs  it  will  be  more  the  beer  than  the 
crockery  ; and  on  the  moors,  rather  grouse  than  heather. 

Going  back  to  No.  142,  you  will  perhaps  ask  me  why 
the  poppy  is  so  poor  and  the  butterfly  so  rich  ? Mainly 
because  the  poppy  withered  and  the  butterfly  was  pinned 
and  permanent.  But  there  are  other  reasons,  of  which 
more  presently. 

144.  Heering  and  Pilchard. 

Supreme  painting  again,  and  done  with  his  best  pains  ; 
for  these  two  subjects,  and 

146  Dead  Chicken 

Were  done  by  the  old  man,  in  all  kindness  and  care,  at 
my  own  request,  for  me  to  give  as  types  of  work  to  coun- 
try schools  of  Art.  Yet  no  kindness  or  care  could  alto- 
gether enable  him  to  work  rightly  under  the  direction  of 
another  mind  ; and  the  project  was  ultimately  given  up 
by  me,  the  chicken  finished  as  it  is,  having  been  one  of 
my  chief  disapj^ointments.  And  here  anent,  let  me  enter 
into  some  general  account  of  the  tenor  of  his  drawings. 
They  may  be  broadly  divided  into  the  following  classes, 
into  one  or  other  of  which  every  work  of  importance  from 
his  hand  will  distinctly  fall. 

Class  1. 

Drawings  illustrative  of  rural  life  in  its  vivacity  and 
purity,  without  the  slightest  endeavor  at  idealization, 
and  still  less  with  any  wish  either  to  caricature,  or  deplore 
its  imperfections.  All  the  drawings  belonging  to  this 
class  are,  virtually,  faultless,  and  most  of  them  very  beau- 
tiful. It  is,  I am  glad  to  say,  thoroughly  represented  in 


276 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


this  room,  which  contains  several  examples  of  the  highest 
quality,  namely,  121,  168,  171,  172,  173,  175. 

Besides  two  pieces  of  still  life  (169  and  the  interior. 
No.  174),  properly  belonging  to  the  group 

Class  2. 

Country  life,  with  endeavor  to  add  interest  to  it  by 
passing  sentiment. 

The  drawings  belonging  to  this  class  are  almost  always 
over-finished,  and  liable  to  many  faults.  There  are  three 
in  this  collection — 120,  165,  166. 

Class  3. 

Country  life,  with  some  expression  of  its  degradation, 
either  by  gluttony,  cowardice,  or  rudeness. 

The  drawings  of  this  class  are  usually  very  clever  and 
apt  to  be  very  popular  ; but  they  are  on  the  whole  dis- 
honorable to  the  artist.  There  are  five  examples  here, 
namely,  157,  158,  161,  163,  164. 

Class  4. 

Flower-pieces.  Fruit  is  often  included  in  these  ; but 
they  form  a quite  separate  class,  being  necessarily  less 
finished  drawings — the  flowers  sooner  changing  their 
form.  Including  the  fungi  among  these,  there  are  eight 
fine  ones  in  the  room,  148,  150,  149,  154,  152,  147,  151, 
156. 

Class  5. 

Fruit-pieces,  on  which  a great  part  of  the  artist’s  repu- 
tation very  securely  rests.  Five  first-rate  ones  are  here, 
and  several  of  interesting,  though  inferior,  quality. 

Class  6. 

Dead  animals.  Alas  ! if  he  could  but  have  painted 
living  ones,  instead  of  those  perpetual  bunches  of  grapes. 
But  it  could  not  be.  To  a weakly,  sensitive,  nervous  tem- 
perament, the  perpetual  changes  of  position,  and  perpet- 
ual suggestions  of  new  beauty  in  an  animal,  are  entirely 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


277 


ruinous  ; in  ten  minutes  they  put  one  in  a fever.  Only 
the  very  greatest  portrait-painters — Sir  Joshua  and  Ve- 
lasquez-— can  draw  animals  rightly. 

I begin  with  this  last  class  and  reascend  to  the  high- 
est. 

138.  Dead  Haee  and  Game. 

A most  notable  drawing  of  early  practice,  quite  won- 
derful in  textures  of  fur  and  in  work  of  shadows,  but 
tentative,  and  in  many  points  failing. 

141.  Dead  Dove.  (A.) 

A pure  water-color  drawing,  before  his  style  was  per- 
fectly formed.  Full  of  interest,  but  too  conventional  and 
slight  in  background. 

139.  Dead  Dove.  (B.) 

Finished  work  of  central  time. 

145.  Dead  Dove.  (C.) 

Replica,  I suppose,  of  B,  with  completer  background, 
and  of  highest  quality.  I must  be  pardoned  for  saying 
so  of  my  own  drawing  ; but  of  course,  after  long  and  af- 
fectionate relations  with  the  painter,  it  would  be  strange 
if  I had  not  some  of  his  best  works. 

143.  Pine,  Melon,  and  Gkapes. 

We  were  obliged  to  put  this  drawing  low  down,  for,  in 
spite  of  its  dark  background,  it  killed  everything  we  put 
near  it.  To  my  mind,  it  is  the  most  majestic  piece  of 
work  in  the  room.  The  grapes  are  of  the  Rubens  Vint- 
age, and  the  shadows  have  the  darkness  of  Tintoret.  It 
is  wholty  free  from  any  pettiness  of  manner,  and  evidences 
spring  and  succulence  of  foliage  ; it  is  as  if  the  strength 
of  nature  were  in  it,  rather  than  of  human  hand.  I never 
saw  it  until  now,  and  have  learned  from  it  more  than  after 
my  fifty  years  of  labor  I thought  anything  but  a Vene- 
tian picture  could  have  taught  me. 


278  NOTES  ON  HUNT. 

132.  “Love  what  you  study,  study  what  you  love.” 

All  modern  painters  in  a nutshell  of  a sentence,  and  the 
painted  nutshell  perfect. — See  Preface. 

130.  Grapes. 

Consummate.  Can’t  be  better  anywhere. 

131.  Mr.  Sibeth’s  Quinces. 

All  that’s  best  in  this  kind. 

125.  Bullaces. 

Very  fine,  but  conventional  in  background. 

129.  Grapes. 

Perfect  work,  but  wasted.  Why  he  did  so  many  grapes, 
and  scarcely  ever  sloes,  or  finely  russet  apples,  or  growing 
strawberries,  always  mystified  me. 

126.  Plums. 

Finest  work,  but  a little  dull.  My  own  favorites  of 
his  plums  were  such  variegated  ones  as  133  and  135  ; but 
I somehow  never  got  any.  This  drawing,  however,  was 
the  one  of  which  Hunt  said  to  me  innocently — seeing  it 
again  after  some  ten  years — “It's  very  nice  ; isn’t  it?  ” 

128.  Plums. 

The  bit  of  oak-leaf  here  is  very  wonderful,  and  inter- 
esting as  an  example,  and  what  Hunt  meant  by  saying  to 
me  once,  “ I like  to  see  things  ‘ Fudged  ’ out.”  It  is  to 
be  reme’mbered,  however,  that  this  was  his  own  special 
liking  ; and  it  must  not  be  followed  by  the  general  stu- 
dent. The  finest  forms  of  anything  cannot  be  “fudged” 
out,  but  must  be  drawn,  if  possible,  with  the  fii’st  line,  at 
least  with  the  last  one,  for  ever. 

149.  Dr.  Drage’s  Fungi. 

A perfect  gem ; “ Venetian  red  ” in  its  best  earthly 
splendor  ; it  could  only  be  more  bright  in  clouds. 


I 


NOTES  ON  HUNT, 


279 


147.  Mr.  Fry’s  Hawthorn. 

A little  overworked,  but  very  glorious.  Soft  and 
scented,  I think,  if  you  only  wait  a little,  and  make-be- 
lieve very  much. 

155.  (Mine.)  Hawthorn  and  Birds’  Nests. 

The  hawthorn  this  time  a little  i^?ii7erworked,  but  very 
good  ; and  nests  as  good  as  can  be. 

148.  Lilac.  (Mr.  Sibeth’s.) 

Fine,  but  curiously  redundant.  The  upper  branch 
by  itself,  or  the  lower  wdth  only  the  laburnum,  or  both 
together  without  the  third,  would  have  been  beautiful ; 
but  two’s  company,  and  three’s  none. 

150.  Vase  with  Rose  and  Basket  with  Fruit.  | 

151.  Flowers  and  Fruit.  ) 

Two  resplendent  ones  ; everything  that  he  could  do 
best  in  this  kind — absolutely  right  in  color,  absolutely 
in  light  and  shade,  and  wuthout  any  rivalship  in  past  or 
present  art. 

162.  The  Gamekeeper. 

Early  study.  Please  observe  that  Hunt  learned  his 
business,  not  in  spots  but  in  lines.  Compare  the  en- 
tirely magnificent  sketch  of  the  river-side,  No.  124,  which 
is  as  powerful  in  lines  as  Rembrandt,  and  the  St.  Mar- 
tin’s Church,  No.  123,  which  is  like  a bit  of  Hogarth. 

157.  The  Invalid. 

Full  of  humor  ; but  there  is  no  place  for  humor  in 
true  painting.  So  also  the  Wasp,  No.  163.  If  1 could 
have  the  currant-pie  wdthout  the  boy,  I should  be  content. 

161.  Gypsies. 

Very  powerful ; historic  in  its  kind. 


166.  Praying  Boy.  (Mr.  Quii.ter’s.) 


280 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


Over-finished,  as  its  companion,  No.  165,  an  endeavor 
at  doing  what  he  did  not  understand.  So  also  the  large 
study  of  himself.  No.  176,  with  the  Mulatto,  No.  122, 
and  Wanderer,  No.  120.  His  mode  of  work  was  entirely 
unfitted  for  full  life-size. 

121.  Mr.  Quilter’s  Stable-boy. 

Mr.  Orrock’s  Shy  Sitter,  and  The  Blessing. 

On  the  contrary,  he  is  here  again  in  his  utmost 
strength — and  in  qualities  of  essential  painting — uncon- 
querable. In  the  pure  faculty  of  painter’s  art — in  what 
Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  and  Velasquez,  and  Kubens, 
and  Rembrandt,  meant  by  painting — that  single  bunch 
. of  old  horse-collars  is  worth  all  Meissonier’s  horse-bridles 
— boots,  breeches,  epaulettes,  and  stars  together. 

The  other  drawings  of  the  highest  class  need  no  com- 
mentary. There  is  not  much  in  the  two  little  candle- 
lights, Nos.  168,  175,  but  all  that  is,  of  the  finest,  and 
the  three  drawings  with  which  I close  our  series,  “The 
Shy  Sitter,”  No.  172,  “ The  Fisherman’s  Boy,”  No.  173, 
and  “ The  Blessing,”  No.  171,  things  that  the  old  painter 
was  himself  unspeakably  blessed  in  having  power  to  do. 
The  strength  of  all  lovely  human  life  is  in  them  ; and 
England  herself  lives  only,  at  this  hour,  in  so  much  as, 
from  all  that  is  sunk  in  the  luxury — sick  in  the  penury — 
and  polluted  in  the  sin  of  her  great  cities.  Heaven  has 
yet  hidden  for  her,  old  men  and  children  such  as  these, 
by  their  fifties  in  her  fields  and  on  her  shores,  and  fed 
them  with  Bread  and  Water. 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  I. 

Every  human  action  gains  in  honor,  in  grace,  in  all  true  magnifi- 
cence, by  its  regard  to  things  that  are  to  come.  It  is  the  far  sight,  tlie 
quiet  and  confident  patience,  that,  above  all  other  attributes,  separate 
man  from  man,  and  near  him  to  his  Maker  ; and  there  is  no  action  nor 
ait  whose  majesty  we  may  not  measure  by  this  test.  Therefore,  when 
we  build,  let  us  think  that  we  build  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for 
present  delight,  nor  for  present  use  alone  ; let  it  be  such  work  as  our 
descendants  will  thank  ns  for,  and  let  us  think,  as  we  lay  stone  on 
stone,  that  a time  is  to  come  when  those  stones  will  be  held  sacred  be- 
cause our  hands  have  touched  them,  and  that  men  will  say,  as  they  look 
Upon  the  labor  and  wrought  substance  of  them,  “ See  ! this  our  fathers 
did  for  us.”  For,  indeed,  the  greatest  glory  of  a building  is  not  in  its 
stones,  nor  in  its  gold.  Its  glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that  deep  sense 
of  voicefulness,  of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even 
of  apjiroval  or  condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have  long 
been  waslied  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity.  It  is  in  their  lasting 
witness  against  men,  in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the  transitional  char- 
acter of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which,  through  the  lapse  of  seasons 
and  times,  and  the  decline  and  birth  of  dynasties,  and  the  changing  of 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  limits  of  the  sea,  maintains  its  sculp- 
tured shapeliness  for  a time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  follow- 
ing ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the  identity,  as  it  concen- 
trates the  sympathy,  of  nations  ; it  is  in  that  golden  stain  of  time,  that 
we  are  to  look  for  the  real  light,  and  color,  and  preciousness  of  archi- 
tecture ; and  it  is  not  until  a building  has  assumed  this  character,  till 
it  has  been  intrusted  with  the  fame,  and  hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men, 
till  its  walls  have  been  witnesses  of  suffering  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of 
the  shadows  of  death,  that  its  existence,  more  lasting  as  it  is  than  that  of 
the  natural  objects  of  the  world  around  it,  can  be  gifted  with  even  so 
much  as  these  possess,  of  language  and  of  life. — ‘'The  Seven  Lamps 
of  Architecture,”  pp.  172,  178. 

But  so  far  as  it  can  be  rendered  consistent  with  the  inherent  charao* 


282 


APPENDICES. 


ter,  tlie  picturesque  or  extraneous  sublimity  of  architecture  has  just  this 
of  nobler  function  in  it  than  that  of  any  other  object  whatsoever,  that 
it  is  an  exponent  of  age,  of  that  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  the  greatest 
glory  of  the  building  consists  ; and  therefore,  the  external  signs  of  this 
glory,  having  power  and  purpose  greater  than  any  belonging  to  their 
mere  sensible  beauty,  may  be  considered  as  taking  rank  among  pure 
and  essential  characters ; so  essential  to  my  mind,  that  I think  a build- 
ing cannot  be  considered  as  in  its  prime  until  four  or  five  centuries  have 
passed  over  it ; and  that  the  entire  choice  and  arrangement  of  its  details 
should  have  reference  to  their  appearance  after  that  period,  so  that 
none  should  be  admitted  which  would  suffer  material  injury  either  by 
the  weatlier-staining,  or  the  mechanical  degradation  which  the  lapse  of 
such  a period  would  necessitate. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  any  of  the  questions  which  the 
application  of  this  principle  involves.  They  are  of  too  great  interest 
and  complexity  to  be  even  touched  upon  within  my  present  limits,  but 
this  is  broadly  to  be  noticed,  that  those  styles  of  architecture  which  are  | 
picturesque  in  the  sense  above  explained  with  respect  to  sculpture,  that 
is  to  say,  whose  decoration  depends  on  the  arrangement  of  points  of 
shade  rather  than  on  purity  of  outline,  do  not  suffer,  but  commonly 
gain  in  richness  of  effect  when  their  details  are  partly  worn  away  ; 
hence  such  styles,  pre-eminently  that  of  French  Gothic,  should  always 
be  adopted  when  the  materials  to  be  employed  are  liable  to  degradation, 
as  brick,  sandstone,  or  soft  limestone ; and  styles  in  any  degree  depen- 
dent on  purity  of  line,  as  the  Italian  Gothic,  must  be  practised  alto- 
gether ill  hard  and  undecomposing  materials — granite,  serpentine,  or 
crystalline  marbles.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  nature  of  the 
accessible  materials  influenced  the  formation  of  both  styles ; and  it 
should  still  more  authoritatively  determine  our  choice  of  either. — Ibid.^ 
pp.  179,  180. 


APPENDIX  n.  I 

The  essence  of  picturesque  character  has  been  already  defined  to  be 
a sublimity  not  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the  thing,  but  caused  by 
something  external  to  it ; as  the  ruggedness  of  a cottage-roof  possesses 
something  of  a mountain  aspect,  not  belonging  to  the  cottage  as  such. 
And  this  sublimity  may  be  either  in  mere  external  ruggedness,  and 
other  visible  character,  or  it  may  lie  deeper,  in  an  expression  of  sorrow  i 
and  old  age,  attributes  which  are  both  sublime  ; not  a dominant  expres- 
sion, but  one  mingled  with  such  familiar  and  common  characters  as 
prevent  the  object  from  becoming  perfectly  pathetic  in  its  sorrow,  or 
perfectly  venerable  in  its  age. 

For  instance,  I cannot  find  words  to  express  the  intense  pleasure  I 


APPENDIGES. 


283 


hare  always  in  first  finding  myself,  after  some  prolonged  stay  in  Eng- 
land. at  the  foot  of  the  old  tower  of  Calais  church.  The  large  neglect, 
the  noble  unsightliness  of  it ; the  record  of  its  years  written  so  visibly, 
yet  without  sign  of  weakness  or  decay  ; its  stern  wasteness  and  gloom, 
eaten  away  by  the  Channel  winds,  and  overgrown  with  the  bitter  sea 
grasses  ; its  slates  and  tiles  all  shaken  and  rent,  and  yet  not  falling  ; Its 
desert  of  brickwork,  full  of  bolts,  and  holes,  and  ugly  fissures,  and  yet 
strong,  like  a bare  brown  rock  ; its  carelessness  of  what  any  one  thinks 
or  feels  about  it,  putting  forth  no  claim,  having  no  beauty  nor  desirable- 
ness, pride  nor  grace  ; yet  neither  asking  for  pity  ; not  as  ruins  are,  use- 
less and  piteous,  feebly  or  fondly  garrulous  of  better  days  ; but  useful 
still,  going  through  its  own  daily  work, — as  some  old  fisherman  beaten 
gray  by  storm,  yet  drawing  his  daily  nets  : so  it  stands,  with  no  com- 
plaint about  its  past  youth,  in  blanched  and  meagre  massiveness  and 
serviceableness,  gathering  human  souls  together  underneath  it;  the 
sound  of  its  bells  for  prayer  still  rolling  through  its  rents  ; and  the  gray 
peak  of  it  seen  far  across  the  sea,  principal  of  the  three  that  rise  above 
the  waste  of  surfy  sand  and  hillocked  shore, — the  lighthouse  for  life, 
and  the  belfry  for  labor,  and  this  for  patience  and  praise. 

I cannot  tell  the  half  of  the  strange  pleasures  and  thoughts  thatcomo 
about  me  at  the  sight  of  that  old  tower ; for,  in  some  sort,  it  is  the  epit- 
ome of  all  that  makes  the  Continent  of  Europe  interesting,  as  opposed 
to  new  countries  ; and,  above  all,  it  completely  expresses  that  agedness 
in  the  midst  of  active  life  which  binds  the  old  and  the  new  into  har- 
mony. We,  in  England,  have  our  new  street,  our  new  inn,  our  green 
shaven  lawn,  and  our  piece  of  ruin  emergent  from  it  — a mere  specimen 
of  the  middle  ages  put  on  a bit  of  velvet  carpet  to  be  shown,  which,  but 
for  its  size,  might  as  well  be  on  a museum  shelf  at  once,  under  cover. 
But,  on  the  Continent,  the  links  are  unbroken  between  the  past  and 
present,  and  in  such  use  as  they  can  serve  for,  the  gray  headed  wrecks 
are  suffered  to  stay  with  men  ; while  in  unbroken  line,  the  generations 
of  spared  buildings  are  seen  succeeding  each  in  its  place.  And  thus  in 
its  largeness,  in  its  permitted  evidence  of  slow  decline,  in  its  poverty, 
in  its  absence  of  all  pretence,  of  all  show  and  care  for  outside  aspect, 
that  Calais  tower  has  an  infinite  of  symbolism  in  it,  all  the  more  striking 
because  usually  seen  in  contrast  with  English  scenes  expressive  of  feel- 
ings the  exact  reverse  of  these.  — “ Modern  Painters,”  vol.  iv. , pp.  2,  3. 


APPENDIX  III. 

And,  in  some  sort,  the  hunter  of  the  picturesque  is  better  than  many 
other  pleasure-seekers  ; inasmuch  as  he  is  simple-minded,  and  capable 
of  unostentatious  and  economical  delights,  which,  if  not  very  helpful 


284 


APPENDICES. 


to  other  people,  are  at  all  events  utterly  nninjurious,  even  to  the  vic- 
tims or  subjects  of  his  picturesque  fancies ; while  to  many  others  his 
work  is  entertaining  and  useful.  And,  more  than  all  this,  even  that 
delight  which  he  seems  to  take  in  misery  is  not  altogether  un virtuous. 
Through  all  his  enjoyment  there  runs  a certain  undercurrent  of  tragical 
passion — a real  vein  of  human  sympathy  ; — it  lies  at  the  root  of  all 
those  strange  morbid  hauiitings  of  his ; a sad  excitement,  such  as  other 
people  feel  at  a tragedy,  only  less  in  degree,  just  enough,  indeed,  to 
give  a deeper  tone  to  his  pleasure,  and  to  make  him  choose  for  his  sub- 
ject the  broken  stones  of  a cottage  wall  rather  than  of  a roadside  bank, 
the  picturesque  beauty  of  form  in  each  being  suppo.sed  precisely  the 
same ; and,  together  with  this  slight  tragical  feeling,  there  is  also  a 
humble  and  romantic  sympathy,  a vague  desire,  in  his  own  mind,  to 
live  in  cottages  rather  than  in  palaces  ; a joy  in  humble  things,  a con- 
tentment and  delight  in  makeshifts,  a secret  persuasion  (in  many  re- 
spects a true  one)  that  there  is  in  these  ruined  cottages  a happiness  often 
quite  as  great  as  in  kings’  palaces,  and  a virtue  and  nearness  to  God 
infinitely  greater  and  holier  than  can  commonly  be  found  in  any  other 
kind  of  place  ; so  that  the  misery  in  which  he  exults  is  not,  as  he  sees 
it,  misery,  but  nobleness — “ poor  and  sick  in  body,  and  beloved  by  the 
Gods.”  And  thus,  being  nowise  sure  that  these  things  can  be  mended 
at  all,  and  very  sure  that  he  knows  not  how  to  mend  them,  and  also 
that  the  strange  pleasure  he  feels  in  them  must  have  some  good  reason 
in  the  nature  of  things,  he  yields  to  his  destiny,  enjoys  his  dark  canal 
without  scruple,  and  mourns  over  every  improvement  in  the  town,  and 
every  movement  made  by  its  sanitary  commissioners,  as  a miser  would 
over  a planned  robbery  of  his  chest ; in  all  this  being  not  only  innocent, 
but  even  respectable  and  admirable,  compared  with  the  kind  of  person 
who  has  no  pleasure  in  sights  of  this  kind,  but  only  in  fair  fa9ades,  trim 
gardens,  and  park  palings,  and  who  would  thrust  all  poverty  and  mis- 
ery out  of  his  way,  collecting  it  into  back  alleys,  or  sweeping  it  finally 
out  of  the  world,  so  that  the  street  might  give  wider  play  for  his  char- 
iot wheels,  and  the  breeze  less  offence  to  his  nobility. — “ Modern  Paint- 
ers,” vol.  iv.,  pp.  11,  12. 


APPENDIX  IV. 

I DO  not  doubt  that  you  are  greatly  startled  at  my  saying  that  greater 
pleasure  is  to  be  received  from  inferior  Art  than  from  the  finest.  But 
what  do  you  suppose  makes  all  men  look  back  to  the  time  of  childhood 
with  so  much  regret  (if  their  childhood  has  been,  in  any  moderate 
degree,  healthy  or  peaceful)  ? That  rich  charm,  which  the  least  pos- 
session had  for  us,  was  in  consequence  of  the  poorness  of  our  treasures. 


APPENDICES, 


285 


That  miraculous  aspect  of  the  nature  around  us  was  because  we  had 
seen  little  and  knew  less.  Every  increased  possession  loads  us  with 
new  weariness  ; every  piece  of  new  knowledge  diminishes  the  faculty 
of  admiration  ; and  Death  is  at  last  appointed  to  take  us  from  a scene 
in  which,  if  we  were  to  stay  longer,  no  gift  could  satisfy  us,  and  no 
miracle  surprise.  . . . 

Ill  your  educational  series  is  a lithograph  drawing,  by  Front,  of  an 
old  house  in  Strasbourg.  The  carvings  of  its  woodwork  are  in  a style 
altogether  provincial,  yet  of  which  the  origin  is  very  distant.  The 
delicate  Renaissance  architecture  of  Italy  was  affected,  even  in  its  finest 
periods,  by  a tendency  to  throw  out  convex  masses  at  the  bases  of  its 
pillars  ; the  wood-carvers  of  the  sixteenth  century  adopted  this  bulged 
form  as  their  first  element  of  ornamentation,  and  these  windows  of 
Strasbourg  are  only  imitations  by  the  German  peasantry  of  what,  in  its 
finest  type,  you  must  seek  as  far  away  as  the  Duomo  of  Bergamo. 

But  the  burgher,  or  peasant,  of  Alsace  enjoyed  his  rude  imitation, 
adapted,  as  it  was,  boldly  and  frankly  to  the  size  of  his  house  and  the 
grain  of  the  larch  logs  of  which  he  built,  infinitely  more  than  the  re- 
fined Italian  enjoyed  the  floral  luxuriance  of  his  marble  ; and  all  the 
treasures  of  a great  exhibition  could  not  have  given  him  the  tenth  part 
of  the  exultation  with  which  he  saw  the  gable  of  his  roof  completed 
over  its  jutting  fret-work;  and  wrote  among  the  rude  intricacies  of  its 
sculpture,  in  flourished  black  letter,  that  “He  and  his  wife  had  built 
their  house  with  God’s  help,  and  prayed  Him  to  let  them  live  long  in  it 
— they  and  their  children.  ” 

But  it  is  not  only  the  rustic  method  of  architecture  which  I wish  you 
to  note  in  this  plate  ; it  isthe  rustic  method  of  drawing  also.  The  manner 
in  which  these  blunt  timber-carvings  are  drawn  by  Front  is  just  as  pro- 
vincial as  the  carvings  themselves.  Born  in  a far-away  district  in  Eng- 
land, and  learning  to  draw,  unhelped,  with  fishing-boats  for  his  models  ; 
making  his  way  instinctively  until  he  had  command  of  his  pencil  enough 
to  secure  a small  income  by  lithographic  drawing  ; and  finding  pictu- 
resque character  in  buildings  from  which  all  the  finest  lines  of  their 
carving  had  been  effaced  by  time  ; possessing  also  an  instinct  in  the 
expression  of  such  subjects  so  peculiar  as  to  win  for  him  a satisfying 
popularity,  and  far  better,  to  enable  him  to  derive  perpetual  pleasure 
in  the  seclusion  of  country  hamlets,  and  the  quiet  streets  of  deserted 
cities.  Front  had  never  any  motive  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  re- 
finements, or  contend  with  the  difficulties  of  a more  accomplished  art. 
So  far  from  this,  his  manner  of  work  was,  by  its  very  imperfection,  in 
the  most  perfect  sympathy  with  the  subjects  he  enjoyed.  The  broad 
chalk  touches  in  which  he  has  represented  to  us  this  house  at  Stras- 
bourg are  entirely  sufficient  to  give  true  idea  of  its  effect.  To  liave 
drawn  its  ornaments  with  the  subtlety  of  Leonardestpie  delineation 
would  only  have  exposed  their  faults  and  mocked  their  rusticity.  The 


286 


APPENDICES. 


drawing  would  have  become  painful  to  you  from  the  sense  of  the  time 
which  it  had  taken  to  represent  what  was  not  worth  the  labor,  and  to 
direct  your  attention  to  what  could  only,  if  closely  examined,  be  a mat- 
ter of  offence.  But  here  you  have  a simple  and  provincial  draughtsman 
happily  and  adequately  expressing  a simple  and  provincial  architecture; 
nor  could  builder  or  painter  have  become  wiser,  but  to  their  loss. — 
“Works  of  John  Ruskin,”  vol.  iv.,  “Eagle’s  Nest,”  pp.  76,  77,  78, 
79,  80. 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS, 


PEOUT  UST. 


Contributed  6y 


1 Calais  Town,  . . . . 

2 Calais  Old  Pier, 

3 Figure  Studies, 

4 Abbeville.  West  Front  of  S. 

Wulfran,  . . . . 

5 Abbeville.  Northwest  Tower 

of  S.  Wulfran, 

6 Abbeville.  Photo,  . 

7 Amiens, 

8 Dieppe.  Chapel  of  the  Holy 

Sepulchre,  . . . . 

9 Evreux, 

10  Strasburg,  . , . . 

11  Strasburg.  Litho,  , 

12  Lisieux,  , . . . . 

13  Lisieux.  Water-color  Drawing, 

14  Bayeux,  . , . . . 

15  Tours,  Shop  at,  . . . 

16  Kouen.  The  Tour  de  Beurre, . 

17  Kouen.  Staircase,  Maelon, 

18  Ghent, 

19  Antwerp, 

20  Augsburgh,  .... 

21  Brunswick,  . . . . 

22  Dresden,  . . . . . 

23  Prague.  The  Bridge, 

24  Prague.  Stadt  Haus, 


Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 
<( 

it 


Mr.  Ruskin 

a 


Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 
Mr.  Ruskin 

a 

it 

it 

Mr.  J.  C.  Ottway 
Mr.  Ruskin 

it 

it 

it 

it 

it 

Col.  T.  H.  Sale 
Mr.  James  Knowles 
Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  John  Simon 


288 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


Contributed  by 


25  Bramburg, 

. 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

26  Nuremberg, 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

27  Lahnstein, 

. 

Mr.  W.  H.  Urwick 

28  The  Drachenfels, 

. 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

29  Islands  of  the  Ehine, 

, 

<( 

30  The  Pfalz, 

, 

Mr.  Ruskin 

31  Worms,  .... 

. 

Mr.  G.  W.  Reid,  F.S.A. 

32  Worms.  Pencil, 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

33  Four  Studies  of  Peasants 

at 

Ratisbonne,  . 

, 

• “ 

34  An  Old  Water-mill,  . 

. 

Mr.  Alfred  H^unt 

35  Ulm,  .... 

, 

Mr.  Ruskin 

36  Ulm.  Water-color  Drawing, 

. 

Ml*.  C.  S.  Whitmore 

37  Swiss  Costumes, 

. 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

38  Old  Hulk, 

. 

Fine  Art  Society 

39  Chillon,  .... 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

40  Chillon.  The  Dungeon,  . 

. 

(t 

41  Montreux, 

. 

]\lr.  S.  G.  Prout 

42  Martigny.  The  Waterfall, 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

43  Martigny.  Village, . 

. 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

44  A Castle,  . . . . 

. 

Mr.  A.  Hunt 

45  Mayence, .... 

. 

Mr.  C.  S.  Whitmore 

46  Brieg,  .... 

. 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

47  Domo  d’Ossola, 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

48  Como,  .... 

. 

a 

49  Verona,  .... 

, 

it 

50  Verona.  Water-color  Drawing, 

51  Verona.  Three  Pencil  Draw- 

Mr.  J.  C.  Ottway 

ings,  .... 

. 

Mr.  Ruskin 

52  Ghent,  .... 

, 

Mr.  W.  J.  Stuart 

53  Sunrise,  .... 

, 

Mr.  W.  Scrivener 

54  Swiss  Village,  . 

, 

Mr.  Ruskin 

55  Place  of  St.  Mark’s,  Venice, 

. 

<1 

56  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the 

West, 

67  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the 
East, 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


289 


Contributed  by 


68  S.  Michael’s  Mount,  Normandy,  Mr.  Kuskin 

69  The  Grand  Canal,  Venice.  Near 

the  Rialto,  . 

60  The  Doge’s  Palace,  Venice, 


61  Verona,  . . . . 

62  Sunset,  . . . . 

63  The  Grand  Canal,  Venice, 

64  The  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

65  Bologna.  San  Jacopo, 


66  Bologna. 


The  Tower  of  Gah 


The  Right  Hon.  Lord 
Coleridge 
Mr.  J.  Rhodes 
Mr.  J.  C.  Scrivener 
Mr.  Ruskin 


senda,  .... 

67  Arqua.  Petrarch’s  House, 

68  Arqua.  Petrarch’s  Tomb, 

69  Vauxhall, 

70  Nuremberg.  Diirer’s  House, 

71  Rome.  Coliseum,  . 

72  Rome.  Fountain  of  Egeria, 

73  Kelso,  .... 

74  Rouen,  .... 

75  Study  of  Dutch  Boats, 

76  Neudersdorf,  . 

77  Gutenfels, 

78  An  Old  Rhine  Bridge  at  Rheins 

felden,  .... 

79  Munich,  .... 

80  Ypres,  . • . 

81  Rubens’  House,  Antwerp, 

82  Caen,  . . 

83  Falaise,  .... 

84  Old  Gateway  at  Monmouth, 

85  Old  Hulk, 

86  Portico  di  Ottavia,  Rome, 

87  Well  at  Strasburg,  . 

88  Well  at  Strasburg,  . 

89  Well  at  Nuremberg, 

90  Ulm,  .... 


(I 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 
(( 

Mr.  H.  Moore 
Mr.  Ruskin 


(C 

Mr.  J.  W.  Gibbs 

Ml’.  Ruskin 
({ 

(4 

44 


44 

44 

44 

44 

44 

44 

Mr.  A.  F.  Payne 
Mr.  Keeling 
Mr.  Duncan 
Mr.  Robinson 
]VIr.  Ruskin 


44 


19 


290 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


Contributed 

91  Prague.  Tower  of  the  Gate,  Mr.  Ruskin 

92  Prague.  Stadthaus,  . . “ 

93  Brunswick.  Rathhaus,  . “ 

94  Coblenz,  .... 

95  English  Cottage,  . . . 

96  Launceston,  . . . Mr.  W.  Eastlake 

97  Wreck  of  an  East  Indiaman, . Hon.  H.  Strutt 

98  Frankfort,  ....  Mr.  A.  T.  Hollingsworth 

99  Marine  View,  . . . Mr.  Safe 

100  Verona,  ....  Mr.  J.  J.  Wigzell 

101  Interior  of  St.  Julien  at  Tours  Mr.  S.  Castle 

102  A Bridge,  ....  Mr.  A.  F.  Payne 

103  View  of  a Church,  . . Rev.  J.  Townsend 


HUNT  LIST. 


120  The  Wanderer, 

121  The  Eavesdropper, 

122  Head  of  a Mulatto  Girl, 

123  St.  Martin’s  Church, 

124  Somerset  House,  . 

125  Bullaces,  . . 

126  Plums,  . . 

127  Black  Grapes  and  Straw- 

berries, . . . . 

128  Magnum  Bonum  Plums, 

129  Black  and  White  Grapes, 

130  Grapes,  . . . . 

131  Quinces,  . . . . 

132  “ Love  what  you  study,  study 

what  you  love,” 

133  Plums  and  Blackberries, 

134  Black  Grapes  and  Peach, 

135  Fruit,  . . . . . 

136  Black  and  White  Grapes, 


Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  W.  Quilter 
IVIr.  F.  Wigan 
Mr.  Ellis 

Mr.  J.  C.  Robinson 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 

u 

i< 

Mr.  W.  J.  Galloway 
Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 

Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Ruskin 
Mi\  Alfred  Harris 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


137  Grapes,  Casket,  and  Peaches, 

138  Hare  (dead), 

139  A Pigeon, 

140  Acorn,  .... 

141  A Pigeon,  .... 

142  Flowers  and  Fruit  with  But- 

terfly, . . . . 

143  Pine,  Melon,  and  Grapes, 

144  Herrings  and  Red  Mullet, 

145  A Pigeon,  .... 

146  Dead  Chicken, 

147  A Bird’s  Nest,  with  May-blos- 

som, . . . . 

148  Lilac  and  Bird’s  Nest,  . 

149  Fungi,  . . . . 

150  Vase  with  Rose,  and  Basket 

with  Fruit, 

151  Flowers  and  Fruit, 

152  Apple  Blossom, 

153  Dog-roses  and  Bird’s  Nest,  . 

154  Primrose  and  Bird’s  Nest, 

155  Birds’  Nests  and  May  Blos- 

som, 

156  Primrose, 

157  The  Invalid, 

158  Saturday  Morning, 

158a  “ Study  of  a Head,” 

159  The  Pitcher  Girl, 

159aSketch  for  the  drawing  of  the 

Fly- catcher, 

160  Sketch  for  the  drawing  of  the 

Cricketer, 

161  The  Gipsies, 

162  The  Gamekeeper, 

163  Boy  startled  by  a Wasp, 

164  A Young  Artist,  , 

165  Prayer, 


Contributed  by 

Mr.  A.  W.  Lyon 

u 

. Mr.  W.  Quilter 
. G.  Knight 
. Mr.  Ruskin 


Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
A.  T.  Hollingsworth 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  Ruskin 


Mr.  Fry 

Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 
Dr.  Drage 

Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  R.  D.  Farnworth 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 

Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  S.  J.  Thacker 
Mr.  J.  J.  Wigzell 
Mr.  G.  Peck 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock. 

Mr.  H.  G.  Hine 

Mr.  Carl  Haag 
Mr.  W.  Quilter 

a 

Mr.  John  Rhodes 
Mr.  George  Gurney 
Dr.  Prescott  Hewett 


291 


292 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


Mr. 

Mr. 

Mr. 

Mr. 

Mr. 

Mr. 


166  Devotion, 

167  Girl’s  Head, 

168  Boy  with  a lighted  Candle, 

169  The  Blacksmith’s  Shop, 

170  By  the  Wayside,  . 

171  The  Blessing, 

172  The  Shy  Sitter,  . 

173  My  Father’s  Boots, 

174  An  Interior, 

175  Boy  with  Lantern, 

176  Portrait  of  Hunt  (painted  by 

himself), 

176*Grapes — Muscatel,  Peach,  and 
Spray  of  Raspberries, 

177  Portrait  of  Sami.  Prout,  by 

Wm.  Hunt,  , . . Mr. 

178  Portrait  of  Wm.  Hunt,  by 

himself,  ....  Mr. 


Mr. 

Mr. 

Mr. 


Contributed  by 

W.  Quilter 
W.  J.  Galloway 
W.  Beacall 
W.  H.  Urwick 
S.  J.  Thacker 
Jas.  Orrock 

ii 

John  Rhodes 
Ruskin 
J.  J.  Elliott 


Mr.  Sutton  Palmer 


Haydon 

Osier 


LIST  OF  CONTRIBUTORS  TO  THE  EXHIBITION. 


Beacall,  Mr.  W. 

Brown,  Dr.  John. 

Coleridge,  The  Right  Hon. 
Lord. 

Drage,  Dr. 

Duncan,  Mr.  E. 

Eastlake,  Mr.  W. 

Elliott,  Mr.  J.  J. 

Fry,  Mr. 

Galloway,  Mr.  W.  J. 

Gibbs,  Mr.  J.  W. 

Gordon,  The  Rev.  O. 

Gurney,  Mr.  Geo. 

Haag,  Mr.  Carl. 

Harris,  Mr.  Alfred. 

Hewett,  Mr.  Prescott, 

Hine,  Mr.  H.  G. 
Hollingsworth,  Mr.  A.  T. 
Howard-Keeling,  Mr.  H. 
Hunt,  Mr.  A. 

Knowles,  Mr.  James. 

Lyon,  Mr.  A.  W. 

Moore,  Mr.  H. 

Orrock,  Mr.  James. 

Ottway,  Mr.  j.  0. 


Palmer,  Mr.  Sutton. 

Payne,  Mr.  A.  F. 

Peck,  Mr.  G. 
pROirr,  Mr.  G. 

Quaile,  Mr.  E. 

Quilter,  Mr.  W. 

Reid,  Mr.  G.  W.,  F.S.A. 
Rhodes,  Mr.  John. 
Robinson,  Mr.  J.  C, 

Ruskin,  Mr. 

Sale,  Colonel. 

Safe,  Mr.  James  W. 
Scrivener,  Mr.  W.  C. 
Sibeth,  Mr.  Edmund. 
Strutt,  The  Hon.  Henry. 
Stuart,  Mr.  W.  J. 
Swinburne,  Sir  John. 
Thacker,  Mr.  S.  J. 

The  Fine  Art  Society. 
Townsend,  The  Rev.  W.  J. 
Urwick,  Mr.  W.  H. 

Wigan,  Mr.  F. 

WiGZELL,  Mr.  j.  j. 
Whitmore,  Mrs.  C.  S. 
Willett,  Mr.  Henry. 


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CATALOGUE 

OF  THE 

DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES 

BY 

J.  M.  W.  TUEUEE,  E.A., 

AT  FUESENT  EXHIBITED  IX  THE  NATIONAL  OALLERT. 


REVISED,  AND  CAST  INTO  PROGRESSIVE  GROUPS,  WITH  EXPLANATORY 

NOTES, 


JOHN  RUSKIN, 


HONORABT  6TCDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  AND  HONORARY  FELLOW  OF  CORPUS  CHRISTI 
COLLEGE,  OXFORD. 


PEEFACE. 


That  in  the  largest,  and,  I suppose,  richest  city  of  the 
world,  the  most  delicate  and  precious  water-color  drawings 
which  its  citizens  possess  should  be  kept  in  a cellar,  under  its 
National  Gallery,  in  which  two-thirds  of  them  are  practically 
invisible,  even  in  the  few  bright  days  which  London  smoke 
leaves  to  summer ; and  in  which  all  are  exposed  to  irreparable 
injury  by  damp  in  winter,  is  a fact  which  I must  leave  the 
British  citizen  to  explain  : stating  here  only  that  neither  Mr. 
Burton  nor  Mr.  Eastlake  are  to  be  held  responsible  for  such 
arrangement;  but,  essentially,  the  public’s  scorn  of  all  art 
which  does  not  amuse  it ; and,  practically,  the  members  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  whose  primary  duty  it  is  to  see  that  works 
by  men  who  have  belonged  to  their  body,  w^hich  may  be  edu- 
cationally useful  to  the  nation,  should  be  rightly  and  suffi- 
ciently exhibited. 

I have  had  no  heart  myself,  during  recent  illness,  to  finish 
the  catalogue  which,  for  my  own  poor  exoneration  from  the 
shame  of  the  matter,  I began  last  year.  But  in  its  present 
form  it  may  be  of  some  use  in  the  coming  Christmas  holidays, 
and  relieve  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Oldham  from  unnecessary 
burden. 

The  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery  will  I trust  forgive 
my  assumption  that,  some  day  or  other,  they  may  enable  their 
keeper  to  remedy  the  evils  in  the  existing  arrangement ; if 
not  by  displacing  some  of  the  pictures  of  inferior  interest  in 
the  great  galleries,  at  least  by  adding  above  their  marble  pil- 
lars and  vaulted  ceilings,  such  a dry  and  skylighted  garret  as 


298 


PREFACE, 


any  photographic  establishment,  opening  a new  branch,  would 
provide  itself  with  in  the  slack  of  the  season.  Such  a room 
would  be  all  that  could  be  practically  desired  for  the  Turner 
drawings  ; and  modern  English  indolence,  if  assisted  in  the 
gratification  of  its  languid  curiosity  by  a lift,  would  not,  I 
trust,  feel  itself  aggrieved  by  the  otherwise  salutary  change. 


INTEODUOTOET  OLASSIFIOATIOK 


The  confused  succession  of  the  drawings  at  present  placed 
in  the  water-color  room  of  the  National  Gallery  was  a conse- 
quence of  their  selection  at  different  periods,  by  the  gradually 
extended  permission  of  the  Trustees,  from  the  mass  of  the  in- 
ferior unexhibited  sketches  in  the  possession  of  the  nation. 
I think  it  best,  in  this  catalogue,  to  place  the  whole  series  in 
an  order  which  might  conveniently  become  permanent,  should 
the  collection  be  eventually  transferred  to  rooms  with  suffi- 
cient light  to  see  it  by  : and  for  the  present  the  student  will 
find  no  difficulty,  nor  even  a delay  of  any  consequence,  in  find- 
ing the  title  of  any  drawing  by  reference  to  the  terminal 
index,  in  which,  by  the  number  in  the  existing  arrangement, 
he  is  referred  to  that  in  the  proposed  one,  followed  in  the 
text. 

The  collection  as  at  present  seen  consists  of  four  hundred 
drawings,  in  wooden  sliding  frames,  contained  in  portable 
cabinets ; and  of  about  half  that  number  grouped  in  fixed 
frames  originally  intended  for  exhibition  in  the  schools  of 
Kensington,  and  in  which  the  drawings  were  chosen  therefore 
for  their  instructive  and  exemplary,  more  than  their  merely 
attractive  qualities.  I observed,  however,  that  the  number  of 
these  partly  detracted  from  their  utility ; and  have  now  again 
chosen  out  of  them  a consecutive  and  perfectly  magistral 
group,  of  which  it  may  safely  be  recommended  that  every  stu- 
dent of  landscape  art  should  copy  every  one  in  succession,  as 
he  gains  the  power  to  do  so. 

This  first,  or  “ Scholar’s  ” group,  consists  of  sixty-five  draw- 
ings arranged,  at  present,  in  thirty  frames ; but  eventually, 


300 


INTRODUCTORY  CLASSIFICATION 


each  of  these  drawings  should  be  separately  framed,  and  placed 
where  it  can  be  perfectly  seen  and  easily  copied. 

The  drawings  originally  exhibited  at  Kensington,  out  of 
which  this  narrower  group  is  now  selected,  were  for  several 
years  the  only  pencil  and  water-color  drawings  by  Turner 
accessible  to  the  public  in  the  National  collection.  I there- 
fore included  among  them  many  sami)les  of  series  which  were 
at  that  time  invisible,  but  to  which,  since  the  entire  mass  of 
drawings  is  now  collected,  it  is  proper  that  the  drawings 
which,  by  their  abstraction,  would  break  the  unity  of  subjects, 
should  be  restored.  I have  therefore,  in  this  catalogue,  placed 
in  complete  order  all  the  important  local  groups  of  sketches 
(in  Rome,  Naples,  Savoy,  etc.),  and  retained  in  the  miscellane- 
ous framed  collection  only  those  which  could  be  spared  with- 
out breaking  the  sequence  of  the  cabinet  drawings.  And  fur- 
ther, I have  excluded  from  this  framed  collection  some  of 
minor  importance,  which  it  seems  to  me  might,  not  only  with- 
out loss,  but  with  advantage  to  the  concentrated  power  of  the 
London  examples,  be  spared,  on  loan  for  use  in  provincial 
Art  schools. 

The  Kensington  series  of  framed  groups,  originally  num- 
bering 153,  has  by  these  two  processes  of  elimination  been 
reduced  in  the  following  catalogue  to  one  hundred,  of  which 
thirty  form  the  above -described  Scholar's  group,”  absolutely 
faultless  and  exemplary.  The  remainder,  of  various  charac- 
ter and  excellence  (which,  though  often  of  far  higher  reach 
than  that  of  the  Scholar’s  group,  is  in  those  very  highest 
examples  not  unaffected  by  the  master’s  peculiar  failings),  I 
have  in  the  following  catalogue  called  the  “ Student’s  group  ” ; 
meaning  that  it  is  presented  to  the  thoughtful  study  of  the 
general  public,  and  of  advanced  artists ; but  that  it  is  only 
with  discrimination  to  be  copied,  and  only  with  qualification 
to  be  praised.  Whereas,  in  the  Scholar’s  group,  there  is  not 
one  example  which  may  not  in  every  touch  be  copied  with 
benefit,  and  in  every  quality,  without  reserve,  admired. 

After  these  two  series  follow  in  this  catalogue,  the  four 
hundred  framed  drawings  in  the  cabinets,  re-arranged  and 
completed  by  the  restorations  out  of  the  Kensington  series. 


INTRODUCTORY  CLASSIFICATION. 


301 


I 

i 


with  brief  prefatory  explanations  of  the  nature  of  each  group. 
One  or  two  gaps  still  require  filling  ; but  there  being  some 
difficulty  in  choosing  examples  fit  for  the  exact  places,  I pub- 
lish the  list  as  it  stands.  The  present  numbers  are  given  in 
order  in  the  terminal  index. 

For  many  reasons  I think  it  best  to  make  this  hand-cata- 
logue direct  and  clear,  with  little  comment  on  separate  draw- 
ings. I may  possibly  afterward  issue  a reprint  of  former 
criticism  of  the  collection,  with  some  further  practical  advice 
to  scholars. 


PEIMAET  SYNOPSIS. 


The  following  general  plan  of  the  new  arrangement  wi’ 
facilitate  reference  in  the  separate  heads  of  it.  The  marginii 
figures  indicate  the  number  of  frames  in  each  series. 


First  Hundred. 

OBOI7P. 

I.  The  Scholar’s  Group,  . 
n.  The  Student’s  Group,  , 


30 

70 

100 


Second  Hundred. 


HI.  Scotland.  Pencil.  (Early), 

. 15  : 

IV.  Still  Life.  Color.  (Mid.  Time),  . 

• ^ i 

V.  Switzerland.  Color.  (Early), 

. 10 

VI.  Mountains.  Color.  (Late), 

. 50 

VH.  Venice.  Color.  (Late), 

. 20  j 

II 

Third  Hundred. 

Vni.  Savoy.  Pencil  (Early), 

. 25  i 

IX.  Vignettes  to  Kogers’  Italy.  (Mid.  Time), 

. 25  i' 

X.  Rome.  (Mid.  Time),  .... 

, 30 

XI.  Tivoli.  (Mid.  Time),  . . • • 

. 5 

Xn.  Naples.  (Mid.  Time),  .... 

ii 

100 

DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


303 


Fourth  Hundred. 

GBOUP. 

XIII.  Vignettes  to  Rogers’  Poems.  (Late),  . , 35 

XIV.  Rivers  of  England.  (Late),  . . , ,15 

XV.  Ports  of  England.  (Late),  ....  5 

XVI.  Venice.  (Latest),  25 

XVII.  Various.  (Latest), 20 


100 

Fifth  Hundred. 

XVIil.  Finest  Color  on  Gray.  (Late),  . . .25 

XIX.  Finest  Color  on  Gray.  (Latest),  . . .25 

XX.  Studies  on  Gray  for  Rivers  of  France.  (Late),  16 

XXI.  The  Seine, 35 

100 


GROUP  I. 

{First  Hundred.) 

The  Scholar’s  Group. 

It  consists  of  sixty-five  drawings  in  thirty  frames,  originally 
chosen  and  arranged  for  exhibition  at  Kensington,  together 
with  upward  of  a hundred  more  (as  explained  in  the  preface), 
out  of  which  this  narrower  series,  doubly  and  trebly  sifted,  is 
now  recommended  to  the  learner,  for  constant  examination, 
and  progressive  practice  ; the  most  elementary  examples  being 
first  given.  Their  proper  arrangement  would  be  on  a screen 
in  perfect  light,  on  a level  with  the  eye— the  three  largest  only 
above  the  line  of  the  rest.  When  several  drawings  are  in  the 
same  frame,  they  are  lettered  a,  6,  c,  etc.,  either  from  left  to 
right,  or  from  above  downward.  The  numbers  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  page  are  those  by  which  they  are  indicated  in  the 


304 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


existing  arrangement ; the  letter  K standing  for  Kensington, 
to  prevent  confusion  with  the  numbers  of  those  in  cabinets, 
which  were  always  at  the  National  Gallery. 


1.  a.  Tower  of  St.  Mary  Kedcliffe,  Bristol,  . . k 3 

6.  Transept  and  Tower,  York  Cathedral. 

c.  Tower  of  Boston,  Lincolnshire. 

2.  a.  Carnarvon  Castle,  . . . , . , k 145 

6.  Wells  Cathedral. 

3.  Malmesbury  Abbey.  Sketch  from  nature  for 

the  drawing  in  the  English  series,  . . e 4 

4.  a.  Study  of  sailing  boat, k 18 

h.  Head  of  rowing  boat. 

c.  Stern  of  rowing  boat. 

5.  a.  b.  Sketches  of  boats  in  light  and  shade,  . . k 17 

c.  Diagram  of  a Dutch  boat. 

6.  Study  of  spars  of  merchant-brig,  , . . k 10 

7.  Study  of  cottage  roof  in  color,  . . . k 13 

8.  Gate  of  Carisbrook  Castle.  Water  - colored 

drawing,  half  way  completed,  . . . k 14 

9.  a.  Sketch  from  nature  at  Ivy  Bridge,  afterward 

realized  in  the  oil  picture,  . . . k 21 

A Sketch  of  the  bed  of  a stream,  on  the  spot, 
half  finished. 

10.  a.  Sketch  from  nature  of  the  tree  on  the  left  in 

Crossing  the  Brook,”  . . . , k 16 

b.  c.  Studies  of  animals. 

d.  Sketch  from  nature  at  Ivy  Bridge,  realized 

in  the  finished  drawing  in  this  collec- 
tion. 

e.  Sketch  from  nature  in  Val  d’ Aosta,  amplified 

afterward  into  the  “ Battle  of  Fort  Kock,” 
now  placed  in  the  upper  rooms  of  the 


Gallery, 

. . K 41 

11. 

Doric  columns  and  entablature. 

. K 33 

12. 

Part  of  the  portico  of  St.  Peter’s,  . 

. K 11 

13. 

Glass  balls,  partly  filled  with  water. 

(Study  of 

reflection  and  refraction), 

. E 121 

SKETCHES  BT  TURNER.  305 

14.  Four  sketches  on  the  Seine,  for  drawings  in  the 

Rivers  of  France.  On  gray  paper,  . . k 70 

15.  Two  studies  of  marine.  On  gray,  . . . k 143 

16.  Four  sketches  at  Calais.  On  gray,  . . . k 71 

17.  Four  sketches  on  the  Seine,  . • , . k 73 

a.  Marly. 

h.  Near  St.  Germain. 

c.  Chateau  of  La  Belle  Gabrielle. 

d.  Near  St.  Germain. 


18.  Two  studies  of  the  Arch  of  Titus,  Rome,  on  white, 

stained  gray,  with  lights  taken  out,  . . k 120 

19.  Two  outline  sketches  of  Cockermcruth  Castle,  , k 62 

20.  Two  outline  sketches  of  x^ark  scenery,  . . k 60 

21.  Rome  from  Monte  Mario.  Finest  pure  pencil,  . k 101 

22.  Rome  from  Monte  Mario.  Pencil  outline  with 


color,  . .......  K 103 

23.  Rome.  The  Coliseum.  Color,  unfinished,  . k 107 

24.  Study  of  cutter.  (Charcoal),  . . . . k 45 

25.  Study  of  pilot  boat.  (Sepia),  . . . . k 46 


26.  Two  pencil  studies,  Leeds,  and  Bolton  Abbey,  . k 6 

27.  Four  pencil  sketches  at  and  near  York,  , . k 148 

28.  Two  pencil  sketches,  at  Cologne  and  on  the 

Rhine, k 147 

29.  Four  sketches  in  color  at  Petworth,  , . . k 76 

30.  Four  sketches  in  color  on  the  Loire  and  Meuse,  k 138 


GROUP  n. 

(First  Hundred.) 

I 

The  Student’s  Geoup. 

The  Student’s  group  is  arranged  so  as  to  exhibit  Turner’s 
methods  of  work,  from  his  earliest  to  his  latest  time  of  power. 
All  his  essential  characters  as  an  artist  are  shown  in  it ; his 
highest  attainments,  with  his  peculiar  faults — faults  of  inher- 
ent nature,  that  is  to  say  ; as  distinguished  from  those  which, 
20 


306 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


after  the  year  1845,  were  signs  merely  of  disease.  No  work 
of  his  declining  time  is  admitted  into  this  series. 

It  begins  (No.  31)  with  three  examples  of  the  earliest  ef- 
forts by  him  existing  in  the  National  collection  of  his  draw- 
ings. Then  follow  examples  of  his  methods  of  study  with 
pencil  and  pen,  from  first  to  last : then,  examples  of  his  work 
similarly  progressive,  in  transparent  color  on  white  paper ; 
and,  finally,  examples  of  his  use  of  body  color  on  gray  paper 
— a method  only  adopted  late  in  life,  as  one  proper  for  none 
but  a consummate  master. 

The  entire  series  is  contained  in  seventy  frames,  selected, 
as  those  of  the  Scholar’s  group  are,  from  the  collection  first 
arranged  for  Kensington  ; and  close  the  first  hundred  of  the 
frames  here  permanently  catalogued. 


31. 


32. 


33. 


34. 

35. 

36. 

37. 

38. 

39. 

40. 

41. 


Three  early  sketches  at  Clifton,  when  he  was 
twelve  or  thirteen  years  old.  He  went  on  for 
several  years  working  thus  in  pencil  and 
color ; then  saw  the  necessity  of  working  in 
pencil  outline  only,  and  never  ceased  that 
method  of  work  to  the  close  of  life,  . . x 1 

a.  Carew  Castle.  Early  pencil  outline,  after  he 

had  determined  its  method,  . . . . k 144 

h.  Lancaster,  of  later  date.  Both  drawings  real- 
ized in  the  England  series. 

a.  Kirkstall  Abbey, k 5 

b.  Holy  Island  Cathedral.  Subjects  realized  in 

the  Liber  Studiorum. 

Sketch  from  nature  of  the  Liber  subject,  “Source 

of  the  Arveron,” k 39 

Sketch  from  nature  for  the  drawing  at  Farnley, 

“ Mont  Blanc  from  the  Valley  of  Chamouni,”  . k 40 


Foreground  studies,  laurel,  etc.,  . . . . k 51 

Studies  of  market  ware  at  Rotterdam,  . . k 54 

Study  of  sheep, x 52 

Memoranda  of  coast  incidents,  . • . . x 20 

Sketches  at  York,  x 149 

Two  Egremont  subjects, k 61 


SKETCHES  BT  TURNER. 


307 


42.  Two  Bridge  subjects, k 146 

43.  Studies  from  Claude,  etc., k 118 

44.  Twelve  leaves  from  a notebook  at  Venice  (all 

drawn  as  richly  on  the  other  sides),  . . k 115 

45.  Four  leaves  of  a notebook  on  journey  to  Scotland 

by  sea, k 112 

46.  a.  Sketches  at  Andernach, k 116 

b.  Sketches  on  the  Rhine. 

c.  Sketches  on  Lago  Maggiore. 

The  leaves  a b are  out  of  a notebook  containing 

270  such. 


47. 

Sketches  at  Naples,  .... 

. K 117 

48. 

At  Dresden, 

. K 119 

49. 

Cologne  Cathedral,  and  Rhine  subject, 

. K 147 

50. 

Sketches  in  Rouen,  with  engraving  of 

finished 

drawing  made  from  one  of  them,  . 

. K 55 

These  twenty  drawings  (31-50)  are  enough  to  show  the 
method  of  the  artist’s  usual  work  from  nature.  He  never 
sketched  in  tinted  shade  but  at  home,  in  making  studies  for 
pictures,  or  for  engravers,  as  in  the  series  of  the  Liber  Studi- 
orum.  When  he  wanted  light  and  shade  in  painting  from 
nature,  he  always  gave  color  also,  for  it  was  as  easy  to  him 
to  give  the  depth  of  shade  he  wanted  in  different  tints,  as  in 
one  ; and  the  result  was  infinitely  more  complete  and  true. 
The  series  of  water-color  sketches  and  drawings  which  next 
follow,  represent,  therefore,  his  progress  in  color  and  chiar- 
oscuro simultaneously ; and  I have  placed  under  the  next 
following  numbers,  examples  of  his  water-color  work  from 
j the  beginning  of  its  effective  power,  to  the  end.  But  these 

I are  not,  as  in  the  Scholar’s  group,  all  equally  exemplary. 

I The  absolutely  safe  and  right  models  are  already  given  in  the 

Scholar’s  group  : here,  there  are  instances  given  of  methods 
questionable — or  distinctly  dangerous,  as  well  as  of  the  best. 
Thus  Turner  drew  for  several  years  almost  exclusivel}’'  in 
neutral  tint,  as  in  No.  51 : but  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  this 
practice  should  be  enforced  as  academical ; and  again,  the 
drawing  of  Folkestone  is  an  instance  of  delicacy  of  work  like 


308 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


that  of  a miniature,  applied  to  a large  surface ; this  is  cer- 
tainly a practice  liable  to  lead  to  the  loss  of  simplicity  and 
power : — it  is  one  on  the  whole  to  be  deprecated ; and  it 
gravely  limited  Turner’s  power  of  making  large  and  manly 
drawings,  at  the  time  when  it  was  most  desirable  for  public 
instruction  that  he  should  have  done  so. 

The  drawings  of  Edinburgh,  and  Ivy  Bridge,  are  types  of 
his  finest  manner,  unaffected  by  this  weakness  of  minute  exe- 
cution. The  drawings  of  Bochester  and  Dover  show  his 
minutest  execution  rightly  applied,  and  his  consummate  skill 
in  composition. 


51. 


52. 

53. 

54. 


55. 

56. 

57. 

58. 

59. 

60. 
61. 
62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66. 

67. 

68. 

69. 

70. 


View  of  Tivoli.  Neutral  tint  (one  of  multitudes, 
which  had  to  be  done  before  the  great  Tivolis 

could  be), 

Kuins  of  the  Savoy  Chapel.  Neutral  tint,  . 

Early  study  of  a cottage, 

The  Castle  of  Aosta ; in  color,  with  the  pencil 
study  for  it  below : one  of  the  series  out 
of  which  Group  VIII.  (third  hundred)  was 

chosen, 

Angry  Swans,  . . . . . 

Study  of  pigs  and  donkeys,  .... 

Study  of  ducks, 

Study  of  storm-clouds  ; with  the  plate  afterward 
engraved  from  it  by  Turner  himself  beneath. 
Three  studies  at  sea,  ...... 

Study  of  evening  and  night  skies, 

Shields.  Engraved  for  Ports  of  England,  . 
Bochester.  Engraved  for  Bivers  of  England, 
Dover.  Engraved  for  Ports  of  England, 
Folkestone.  Large  drawing  unfinished, 
Edinburgh  from  the  Calton  Hill.  Finished  drawing, 
Ivy  Bridge.  Finished  drawing,  .... 

Battle  of  Fort  Bock.  Finished  drawing. 

The  Source  of  the  Arveron.  Unfinished,  large,  . 
Grenoble.  Unfinished,  large,  .... 

Grenoble.  “ “ > • • • 


K 9 

K 8 
K 12 


K 27 

K 122 

K 53 
K 58 

K 64 
K 65 
K 63 

K 68 

K 69 
K 67 
K 44 
K 35 
K 42 
K 41 
K 125 
K 126 
K 127 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


309 


The  two  last  drawings  are  among  the  most  exquisit#  frag- 
ments existing  of  his  central  manner.  They  are  beginnings 
of  a favorite  subject,  which  he  seems  to  have  found  beyond  his 
power  on  this  scale,  and  afterward  finished  on  a reduced  one. 
They  may  properly  close  the  examples  of  his  work  in  pure 
water-color.  Two  specimens  of  his  sketching  in  oil — a rare 
practice  with  him — follow  ; and  then,  a magnificent  selection 
from  the  body-color  drawings  of  his  best  time,  which  contain 
tlie  most  wonderful  things  he  ever  did  in  his  own  special 
manner. 

71.  Kocks  in  Bolton  glen, k 128 

72.  Torrent  bed.  One  of  the  studies  made  at  the 

date  of  Ivy  Bridge, k 34 

73.  Sunset  and  Twilight : the  last  at  Petworth,  . k 132 

74.  Pen -outline  sketches  for  the  Bivers  of  France,  • k 77 

75.  Tancarville,  and  three  other  French  subjects,  . k 81 

76.  Four  French  subjects,  , . . . . k 80 

77.  Eocks  on  the  Meuse,  and  three  other  subjects,  . k 82 


78.  Luxembourg,  and  three  other  subjects,  . . k 83 

79.  Two  of  Honfleur,  two  unknown, . . , . k 84 

80.  Honfleur,  and  three  other  subjects,  . . . x 85 

81.  Dijon,  and  three  other  subjects,  . . . . x 86 

82.  Interiors, x 75 

83.  Saumur,  Huy,  and  Dinant, x 133 

84.  a.  Town  on  Loire  ; 6,  Carrara  mountains,  , . x 139 

85.  Nantes,  and  Dressing  for  Tea,  . . . . x 135 

86.  Harfleur,  Caudebec,  and  two  others,  , • . x 136 

87.  Saumur,  and  two  others,  . . • , . x 137 

88.  Orleans  and  Nantes,  x 134 

89.  Dinant,  etc., x 78 

90.  Havre,  etc., x 79 


Henceforward  to  the  close  of  the  Student’s  group  are  placed 
examples  of  his  quite  latest  manner  : in  outline,  more  or  less 
fatigued  and  hasty,  though  full  of  detail — in  color,  sometimes 
extravagant— and  sometimes  gloomy ; but  every  now  and  then 
manifesting  more  than  his  old  power  in  the  treatment  of  sub-* 
jects  under  aerial  and  translucent  effect. 


SIO 

CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 

91. 

Fribourg,  Swiss.  Pen  outline  over  pencil. 

. K 152 

92. 

Fribourg,  Swiss.  Pen  outline  over  pencil, 

. K 153 

93. 

Swiss  Fortress  and  Grenoble, . 

* , 

. K 142 

94. 

Lausanne,  and  another  subject, 

• • 

. K 93 

95. 

Fluelen  and  Kussnacht,  . 

• • 

k95  ! 

96. 

Lake  of  Annecy,  and  Landeck, 

• • 

. K 96 

97. 

Venice, 

• • 

k97  i 

98. 

Venice, 

• • 

. K 98 

99. 

Lucerne  and  Zurich, 

^ 1 • 

, K 99 

100. 

Lake  Lucerne.  Morning, 

• • 

. K 100  c. 

SECOND  HUNDBED.  , 

(Cabinet  Drawings.) 

The  second  century  of  the  drawings,  as  rearranged,  forms 
a mixed  group,  containing  both  early  and  late  work,  which  I 
have  thrown  together  in  a cluster,  in  order  to  make  the  I 
arrangement  of  the  following  three  hundred  drawings  more  | 
consistent. 

The  first  thirty  drawings  of  this  hundred  are  all  early  ; and  | 
of  consummate  value  and  interest.  The  remaining  seventy 
were  made  at  the  time  of  the  artist’s  most  accomplished 
power  ; but  are  for  the  most  part  slight,  and  intended  rather 
to  remind  himself  of  what  he  had  seen,  than  to  convey  any 
idea  of  it  to  others.  Although,  as  I have  stated,  they  are 
placed  in  this  group  because  otherwise  they  would  have  inter- 
fered with  the  order  of  more  important  drawings,  it  cannot 
but  be  interesting  to  the  student  to  see,  in  close  sequence,  the 
best  examples  of  the  artist’s  earliest  and  latest  methods  of 
sketching. 


SKETCHES  BY  TUBNEK 


311 


GROUP  III 

(Second  Hundred.) 

' Fifteen  pencil  drawings  of  Scottish  scenery  made  on  his 
I first  tour  in  Scotland,  and  completed  afterward  in  light  and 
I shade,  on  tinted  paper  touched  with  white.  Several  of  his 
best  early  colored  drawings  were  made  from  these  studies, 

' and  are  now  in  the  great  collection  at  Farnley. 

; They  are  all  remarkable  for  what  artists  call  “ breadth  ” of 
I effect  (carried  even  to  dulness  in  its  serene  rejection  of  all 
minor  elements  of  the  picturesque — craggy  chasms,  broken 
waterfalls,  or  rustic  cottages ) ; and  for  the  labor  given  in 
I careful  pencil  shading,  to  round  the  larger  masses  of  moun- 
tain, and  show  the  relation  of  the  clouds  to  them.  The  moun- 
> tain  forms  are  always  perfect,  the  clouds  carefully  modelled ; 

I when  they  cross  the  mountains  they  do  so  solidly,  and  there 
; is  no  permission  of  the  interferences  of  haze  or  rain.  The 
composition  is  always  scientific  in  the  extreme. 

I I do  not  know  the  localities,  nor  are  they  of  much  conse- 
; quence.  Their  order  is  therefore  founded,  at  present,  only  on 
i the  character  of  subject  ; but  I have  examined  this  series  less 
I carefully  than  any  of  the  others,  and  may  modify  its  sequence 
in  later  editions  of  this  catalogue.  The  grand  introductory 
upright  one  is,  I think,  of  Tummel  bridge,  and  with  the  one 
following,  102,  shows  the  interest  which  the  artist  felt  from 
I earliest  to  latest  days  in  all  rustic  architecture  of  pontifical 
character. 

The  four  following  subjects,  103-106,  contain  materials 
used  in  the  Liber  composition  called  “ Ben  Arthur  ” ; 114  is 
called  at  Farnley  “ Loch  Fyne.” 

The  reference  numbers  in  the  right  hand  column  are  hence- 
forward to  the  cabinet  frames  as  at  present  arranged,  unless 
the  prefixed  K indicate  an  insertion  of  one  out  of  the  Ken- 
sington series. 


312  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


101. 

Scotland. 

(Bridges  on  the  Tummel  ? ), 

. 311 

102. 

Scotland. 

Bridges  and  village, 

• • 

. 313 

103. 

Scotland. 

Argyllshire  ? 

• • 

• 

. 309 

104. 

Scotland. 

Argyllshire  ? 

• 

• 

. • 310 

105. 

Scotland. 

Argyllshire  ? 

• • 

• 

. 307 

106. 

Scotland. 

Study  of  trees,  . 

• • 

• 

. E 22a 

107. 

Scotland. 

Study  of  trees,  . 

♦ » 

• 

. K 225 

108. 

Scotland. 

Study  of  trees,  • 

• • 

• 

. 306 

109. 

Scotland, 

• • • • 

« • 

• 

. 346 

110. 

Scotland, 

• • • • 

• • 

• 

. 347 

111. 

Scotland, 

• • • • 

• • 

• 

. 348 

112. 

Scotland, 

• • 

. 349 

113. 

Scotland. 

Loch  Fyne  ? • 

• • 

• 

. 312 

114. 

Scotland. 

Loch  Fyne  ? 

• • 

• 

. 314 

115. 

Scotland, 

• « • • 

• 

. 308 

GROUP  IV. 

{Second  Hundred.) 

STUDIES  OF  BIRDS  AND  FISH. 

Placed  immediately  after  the  Scottish  series  in  order  to 
show  the  singularly  various  methods  of  the  Master’s  study. 
These  sketches  are,  however,  at  least  ten  years  later  in  date. 
They  are  all  executed  with  a view  mainly  to  color,  and,  in 
color,  to  its  ultimate  refinements,  as  in  the  gray  down  of  the 
birds,  and  the  subdued  iridescences  of  the  fish. 

There  is  no  execution  in  water-color  comparable  to  them 
for  combined  rapidity,  delicacy,  and  precision — the  artists  of 
the  world  may  be  challenged  to  approach  them  ; and  I know 
of  only  one  piece  of  Turner’s  own  to  match  them — the  Dove 
at  Farnley. 


116.  Teal,  . 

117.  Teal,  . 


. K 59 
. 375 


SKETCHES  DT  TtlRNEM. 


313 


118.  (Not  yet  placed.)  * 

119.  Perch,  .........  373 

120.  Trout  and  other  fish  374 


GROUP  V. 

{Second  Hundred.) 

COLORED  SKETCHES  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

These  quite  stupendous  memoranda  were  made  on  his  first 
Swiss  journey,  1803,  and  are  at  the  maximum  of  his  early 
power.  Several  of  very  high  quality  W' ere  made  from  those 
on  the  St.  Gothard  ; a beautiful  one  at  Farnley  from  126  ; and 
the  greatest  of  the  Liber  mountain  subjects,  from  123,  125, 
and  127. 

121.  On  the  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  above  Amsteg,  . . 324 

122.  The  old  road,  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  . . . 320 

123.  The  old  Devil’s  Bridge,  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  . 321 

124.  Bonneville,  Savoj^ 323 

125.  The  Source  of  the  Arveron,  as  it  was  in  1803,  . 319 

126.  The  Mer-de-glace  of  Chamouni,  looking  upstream,  325 

127.  The  Mer-de-glace  of  Chamouni,  looking  down- 

stream,   * 322 

128.  Contamines,  Savoy, k 38 

(Two  subjects  still  wanting  to  this  series,  may,  I believe,  be 
furnished  out  of  the  reserves  in  tin  cases.) 


* I may  possibly  afterward,  with  the  permission  of  the  Trustees,  be 
able  to  supply  this  gap  with  a drawing  of  a Jay,  given  me  by  Mr.  W. 
Kingsley,  or  with  some  purchased  example--there  being  no  more  than 
these  four  in  the  National  collection. 


r 


314  CATALOGUE  OF  DBAWIN08  AND 


- GROUP  VI. 

{Second  Hundred.) 

Fifty  sketclies  on  his  later  Continental  journeys,  made  in 
pencil  outline  only  on  the  spot,  and  colored  from  memory. 

Of  the  finest  quality  of  pure  Turnerian  art,  which  is  in  sum, 
as  explained  in  my  various  university  lectures  over  and  over 
again,  the  true  abstraction  of  the  color  of  Nature  as  a distinct 
subject  of  study,  with  only  so  much  of  light  and  shade  as  may 
explain  the  condition  and  place  of  the  color,  without  taint-  j 

ing  its  purity.  In  the  modern  French  school,  all  the  color  j 

is  taken  out  of  Nature,  and  only  the  mud  left.  By  Turner, 
all  the  mud  is  taken  out  of  Nature,  and  only  the  color  left. 
Tones  of  chiaroscuro,  which  depend  iipon  color,  are  however  i 
often  given  in  full  depth,  as  in  the  Nos.  138,  139, 179,  and  180.  ; 


131. 

The  Red  Gorge, 

132. 

The  Alice  Blanche,  . 

133. 

The  Via  Mala,  . 

134. 

Miner’s  Bridge, 

135. 

Altorf, 

136. 

* Martigny, 

137. 

Mont  Righi  at  dawn. 

138. 

Mont  Righi  at  sunset. 

139. 

Fort  I’Ecluse,  . 

140. 

Dent  d’Oches,  from  Lausanne, 

141. 

Lausanne, 

142. 

Lausanne, 

143. 

Lausanne, 

144. 

Lausanne, 

145. 

Lausanne, 

146. 

Vevay, 

147. 

Baden  (Swiss), 

72 
47 

73 
80 

100 

81 

96 

45 
42 
41 
44 
50 

91 

92 
95 

46 
49 


SKETCHES  BY  TUBNEB, 


315 


148. 

Baden  (Swiss),  .... 

83 

149. 

Baden  (Swiss),  ...  * 

85 

150. 

Heidelberg,  ..... 

284 

151. 

Heidelberg, 

282 

152. 

Heidelberg,  * . . . . 

283 

153. 

Coblentz,  Bridge  of  boats, 

279 

154. 

Coblentz,  Bridge  of  boats, 

. K 94  6 

155. 

Coblentz,  Bridge  on  the  Moselle,  . 

280 

156. 

Coblentz,  Bridge  on  the  Moselle,  . 

. K 94  a 

157. 

Fortress, 

48 

158. 

Fortress,  ..... 

82 

159. 

Eiver  scene,  ..... 

78 

160. 

River  scene, 

79 

161. 

Rheinfelden,  just  above  Basle,  Swiss, 

86 

162. 

Rheinfelden, 

87 

163. 

Rheinfelden,  ..... 

88 

164. 

Rheinfelden,  ..... 

89 

165. 

Rheinfelden,  ..... 

90 

166. 

Fortress, 

77 

167. 

Lake  Lucerne,  from  Kussnacht, 

43 

168. 

Mont  Pilate,  from  Kussnacht, 

290 

169. 

Lake  Lucerne,  from  Brunnen, 

. K 100  a 

170. 

Lake  Lucerne,  from  Brunnen, 

. K 1005 

171. 

Zurich, 

289 

172. 

Zurich, 

287 

173. 

Lucerne,  ..... 

288 

174. 

Schaffhausen,  .... 

285 

175. 

Constance  ..... 

286 

176. 

Splugen,  ..... 

75 

177. 

Bellinzona,  ..... 

94 

178. 

Fluelen, 

99 

179. 

Aart,  ...... 

97 

180. 

Goldau, 

. 98 

316 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


GROUP  m 

(Second  Hundred,) 

TWENTY  SKETCHES  IN  VENICE, 

Characteristic  of  Turner’s  entirely  final  manner,  when  the 
languor  of  age  made  him  careless,  or  sometimes  reluctant  in 
outline,  while  yet  his  hand  had  lost  none  of  its  subtlety,  nor 
his  eye  of  its  sense  for  color.  From  the  last  but  one  (199) 
he  painted  the  best  of  his  late  Academy  pictures,  now  in  the 
upper  gallery,  and  188  has  itself  been  carried  forward  nearly 
to  completion. 


181. 

The  Approach  to  Venice,  .... 

51 

182. 

The  Ducal  Palace  and  Eiva, 

52 

183. 

The  Riva  (dei  Schiavoni),  .... 

53 

184. 

The  Riva,  from  the  Canal  of  Chioggia, 

* 

54 

185. 

Church  of  Salute,  from  the  Riva, 

55 

186. 

The  Riva,  looking  west,  .... 

56 

187. 

The  Riva,  from  the  outlet  of  the  Canal  of  the 

Arsenal,  . . . 

57 

188. 

The  Canal  of  the  Arsenal,  .... 

58 

189. 

Bridge  over  the  Canal  of  the  Arsenal,  . 

59 

190. 

San  Giorgio,  . , . . . 

60 

191. 

The  Steps  of  the  Salute,  .... 

61 

192. 

The  Grand  Canal,  with  the  Salute, 

62 

193. 

The  Casa  Grimani,  ..... 

63 

194. 

San  Simeon  Piccolo, 

• 

64 

195. 

Fishing  Boat, 

65 

196. 

Moonrise,  ....... 

66 

197. 

The  Giudecca,  with  Church  of  Redentore,  . 

. 

67 

198. 

Looking  down  the  Giudecca, 

, 

68 

199. 

Looking  up  the  Giudecca,  .... 

. 

69 

200. 

Farewell  to  Venice, 

. 

70 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


31T 


THIRD  HUNDRED. 

The  third  century  of  drawings  consists  entirely  of  sketches 
or  compositions  made  in  Italy,  or  illustrative  of  Italian  scen- 
ery and  history.  It  opens  with  a group  of  pencil  sketches 
made  in  Savoy  and  Piedmont  in  1803,  showing  the  artist’s 
first  impressions  of  the  Italian  Alps.  Then  follow  the  vig- 
nettes made  to  illustrate  Rogers’  poem  of  “ Italy,”  many  of 
which  were  composed  from  the  preceding  pencil  sketches; 
and  then  follow  fifty  sketches  made  on  his  first  visit  to  south- 
ern Italy,  divided  into  three  groups,  illustrative  of  Rome, 
Tivoli,  and  Naples. 


GROUP  YIII. 

(Third  Hundred.) 

TWENTY-FIVE  SKETCHES  IN  SAVOY  AND  PIEDMONT, 

With  very  black,  soft  pencil,  on  dark  tinted  paper,  touched 
with  white.  Of  the  highest  value  and  interest.  Made,  I be- 
lieve, in  1803 ; at  all  events  on  his  first  Continental  journey  : 
all  in  complete  chiaroscuro,  and  in  his  grandest  manner. 
They  ai*e  absolutely  true  to  the  places;  no  exaggeration  is 
admitted  anywhere  or  in  any  respect,  and  the  compositions, 
though  in  the  highest  degree  learned,  and  exemplary  of  con- 
structive principles  in  design,  are  obtained  simply  by  selection, 
not  alteration,  of  forms — and  by  the  introduction  either  of 
clouds,  figures,  or  entirely  probable  light  and  shade. 

All  are  rapid  and  bold  ; some,  slight  and  impetuous  ; but 
they  cannot  be  too  constantly  studied,  or  carefully  copied,  by 
landscape  students,  since,  whatever  their  haste,  the  conception 
is  always  entirely  realized  ; and  the  subject  disciplined  into  a 
complete  picture,  balanced  and  supported  from  corner  to  cor- 
ner, and  concluded  in  all  its  pictorial  elements. 


318 


CATALOGUE  OF  LRAWINGS  AND 


Observe  also  that  altbougb  these  sketches  give  some  of  the 
painter’s  first,  strongest,  and  most  enduring  impressions  of 
mountain  scenery,  and  architecture  of  classical  dignity — their 
especial  value  to  the  general  student  is  that  they  are  in  no 
respect  distinctively  Turnerian,  but  could  only  be  known  by 
their  greater  strength  and  precision  from  studies  such  as 
Gainsborough  or  Wilson  might  have  made  at  the  same  spots  : 
and  they  are  just  as  useful  to  persons  incapable  of  coloring, 
in  giving  them  the  joy  of  rightly  treated  shade,  as  to  the  ad- 
vanced colorist  in  compelling  him  to  reconsider  the  founda- 
tions of  effect,  which  he  is  too  often  beguiled  into  forgetting. 


201. 

Town  of  Grenoble,  . 

. . 

. K 32  a 

202. 

Grenoble,  with  Mont  Blanc, 

. • 

. k31  b 

203. 

Grenoble,  with  Mont  Blanc, 

. • 

5 

204. 

Koad  from  Grenoble  to  Voreppe, 

. 

. E 30  a 

205. 

Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse, 

. . 

9 

206. 

Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse, 

. 

10 

207. 

Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse, 

. 

12 

208. 

Bridges  at  the  Chartreuse, 

. . 

11 

209. 

Cascade  of  the  Chartreuse, 

, . 

14 

210. 

Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  forward), 

17 

211. 

Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  back), 

18 

212. 

Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  back,  farther 

off), 19 

213. 

Chain  of  Alps  of  the  Chartreuse, 

. 

3 

214. 

Alps  of  the  Chartreuse  (the  Liber  subject). 

. K 31  a 

215. 

Val  d’Isere,  .... 

. . 

. k29  6 

216. 

Val  d’Isere,  with  Mont  Blanc,  . 

• 

. K 30  5 

217. 

Martigny,  . . . . 

24 

218. 

Hospice  of  St.  Bernard,  . 

. 

. K 25  a 

219. 

Descent  to  Aosta, 

. 

22 

220. 

Town  of  Aosta,  . . . 

. 

. K 25  ^ 

221. 

East  gate  of  Aosta  (Italy  vignette). 

. 

. K 26  d! 

222 

Triumphal  arch  of  Aosta,  . 

. 

. K 26  6 

223. 

Near  Aosta,  .... 

. 

23 

224. 

Ascent  to  Courmayeur, 

. 

. K 29  a 

225. 

Descent  to  Ivrea, 

. 

25 

SKETCHES  BY  TUBNEB, 


319 


GROUP  IX. 

{Third  Hundred.) 

The  vignettes  to  Rogers’  “ Italy  ” are  of  Turner’s  best  time, 
and  contain  some  of  liis  very  best  work  ; the  more  interesting 
because,  with  few  exceptions,  they  are  quickly,  and  even 
slightly,  executed.  Whether  slight,  or  carried  on  to  comple- 
tion, they  are  in  the  highest  degree  exemplary  to  the  student 
of  water -color;  one  only  excepted,  the  “Venice,”  which, 
whether  painted  during  some  fit  of  slight  illness,  or  perhaps 
hurriedly  by  candlelight  under  some  unexpected  call  from  the 
engraver,  is  utterly  different  from  the  rest,  and  wholly  un- 
worthy of  the  painter.  This  is  therefore  excluded  from  the 
series,  and  placed  among  the  supplementary  studies.  The 
total  number  of  vignettes  executed  by  Turner  for  Rogers’ 
“Italy”  was  twenty-five;  but  one,  the  “Dead-house  of  St. 
Bernard,”  is  irrevocably  in  America,  and  the  exclusion  of  the 
“ Venice  ” leaves  the  total  number  in  these  cases,  twenty-three. 
To  complete  them  to  a symmetrical  twenty-five  I have  placed 
with  them,  to  terminate  their  series,  the  two  of  the  later  series 
executed  for  Rogers’  “Poems,”  which  have  most  in  common 
with  the  earlier  designs  of  the  “Italy.” 

The  twenty-three  Italian  ones  are  arranged  with  little  varia- 
tion from  the  order  in  which  they  are  placed  as  the  illustra- 
tions of  the  poems  ; the  reasons  for  admitted  variations  will 
be  comprehended  without  difficulty.  The  two  that  are  added 
are  bold  compositions  from  materials  in  Italy  ; the  last  was 
the  illustration  of  Rogers’  line,  “ The  shepherd  on  Tornaro’s 
misty  brow,”  beginning  a description  of  sunrise  as  the  type 
of  increasing  knowledge  and  imagination  in  childhood.  But 
there  is  no  such  place  known  as  Tornaro,  and  the  composition, 
both  in  the  color  of  sea  and  boldness  of  precipice,  resembles 
only  the  scenery  of  the  Sicilian  Islands. 


320 

CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 

226. 

The  Lake  of  Geneva,  . 

. 210 

227. 

The  Lake  of  Lucerne  (from  Tell’s  Chapel),  . 

. 213 

228. 

St.  Maurice, 

. 205 

229. 

Martigny, 

. 212 

230. 

Hospice  of  St.  Bernard, 

. 211 

231. 

Aosta,  ...... 

232. 

Hannibal  passing  the  Alps,  . 

. 204 

233. 

The  Battle  of  Marengo, 

. 207 

234. 

The  Lake  of  Como, 

. 215 

235. 

Isola  Bella,  Lago  Maggiore,  . 

. 208 

236. 

Verona.  Moonlight,  . 

. 217 

237. 

Padua.  Moonlight.  The  Canal  for  Venice, 

. 223 

238. 

Florence, 

. 214 

239. 

Galileo’s  Villa,  Arcetri,  . 

. 221 

240. 

Composition,  .... 

. 202 

241. 

Rome, 

. 216 

242. 

St.  Peter’s, 

. 218 

243. 

The  Campagna,  .... 

. 219 

244. 

Tivoli,  The  Temple  of  the  Sybil,  . 

. 224 

245. 

Banditti,  ..... 

. 222 

246. 

Naples, 

. 201 

247. 

Amalfi, 

. 225 

248. 

Paestum, 

. 206 

249. 

The  Garden,  .... 

. 220 

250. 

The  Cliffs  of  Sicily.  Sunrise, 

. 230 

GKOUP  X. 

(Third  Hundred.) 

THIBTY  SKETCHES  IN  PENCIL,  SOMETIMES  TOUCHED  WITH 
COLOR,  AT  ROME. 

This  group,  with  the  two  following,  exemplify  the  best 
drawings  made  by  Turner  from  Nature.  All  his  powers  were 
at  this  period  in  perfection  ; none  of  his  faults  had  developed 
themselves ; and  his  energies  were  taxed  to  the  utmost  to 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER, 


321 


seize,  both  in  immediate  admiration,  and  for  future  service, 
the  loveliest  features  of  some  of  the  most  historically  interest- 
ing scenery  in  the  world. 

There  is  no  exaggeration  in  any  of  these  drawings,  nor  any 
conventionalism  but  that  of  outline.  They  are,  in  all  re- 
spects, the  most  true  and  the  most  beautiful  ever  made  by  the 
: painter  ; but  they  differ  from  the  group  first  given  (VII) 
in  being  essentially  Turnerian,  representing  those  qualities  of 
form  and  color  in  which  the  painter  himself  most  delighted, 
and  which  persons  of  greatly  inferior  or  essentially  different 
faculties  need  not  hope  for  benefit  by  attempting  to  copy. 
The  quantity  of  detail  given  in  their  distances  can  only  be 
seen,  in  a natural  landscape,  by  persons  possessing  the  strong- 
est and  finest  faculties  of  sight : and  the  tones  of  color 
adopted  in  them  can  only  be  felt  by  persons  of  the  subtlest 
I color -temperament,  and  happily  - trained  color  - disposition. 

I To  the  average  skill,  the  variously  imperfect  ocular  power, 
and  blunted  color-feeling  of  most  of  our  town-bred  students, 
I the  qualities  of  these  drawings  are — not  merely  useless,  but, 
in  the  best  parts  of  them,  literally  invisible. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  students  of  fine  faculty  and  w^ell- 
trained  energy,  no  drawings  in  the  world  are  to  be  named 
! with  these  fifty  (251-300),  as  lessons  in  landscape  drawing  : 


: 251. 

Rome  from  Monte  Mario  (finest  pencil),  . 

. K 101 

: 252. 

Rome  from  Monte  Mario  (partly  colored), 

. K 103 

253. 

Villas  on  Monte  Mario,  .... 

326 

251 

Stone  pines  on  Monte  Mario,  . 

263 

; 255. 

The  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

262 

256. 

The  Bridge  and  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

. K 102 

, 257. 

The  Tiber  and  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

255 

j 258. 

The  Tiber  and  the  Capitol, 

264 

259. 

The  Tiber  and  the  Apennines, , 

268 

1 260. 

Study  in  Rome,  ..... 

266 

. 261. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  .... 

382 

262. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  with  living  acanthus, 

. Kill  5 

263. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  .... 

257 

264. 

Sto  Peter’s,  from  the  West,  . , , 

21 

267 

’322 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


265.  St.  Peter’s,  from  the  South  (pencil),  . . 259 

266.  Colored  sketch  of  the  same  subject,  . . 273 

267.  St.  Peter’s  and  the  Vatican,  ....  269 

268.  The  Colonnade  of  Bernini  (beneath),  . . 256 

269.  The  Portico  of  St.  Peter’s,  . . . . 258 

270.  The  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus  (pencil  on  gray),  253 

271.  The  Basilica  of  Constantine  (color),  . . . k 108 

272.  The  Coliseum  and  Basilica  of  Constantine,  . 272 

273.  The  Coliseum  and  Arch  of  Constantine,  . . 331 

274.  The  Coliseum  and  Arch  of  Titus,  . . . 328 

275.  The  Coliseum — seen  near,  with  flock  of  goats, . 275 

276.  The  Coliseum  (study  of  daylight  color), . . 271 

277.  The  Coliseum  in  pale  sunset,  with  new  moon, . 265 

278.  The  Palatine,  .......  274 

279.  The  Alban  Mount,  ......  260 

280.  Borne  and  the  Apennines,  . . . • 327 


GKOUP  XI. 

(Third  Hundred.) 

Five  sketches  from  nature  at  Tivoli ; three  in  pencil,  two 
in  color.  Unsurpassable. 

281.  The  Temple  of  Vesta  (in  distance),  . . . 302 

282.  The  Temple  of  Vesta  (near),  . . . . . 252 

283.  General  view  from  the  valley,  ....  303 

284.  The  same  subject  in  color,  .....  340 

285.  The  Town  with  its  Cascades,  and  the  Campagna,  . 339 


GKOUP  XII. 

(Third  Hundred.) 

Fifteen  sketches,  at  or  near  Borne  and  Naples.  The  three 
Campagna  ones,  with  the  last  four  of  the  Neapolitan  group, 
are  exemplary  of  all  Turner’s  methods  of  water-color  paint-^ 
ing  at  the  acme  of  his  sincere  power. 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


323 


286.  Campagna.  Warm  sunset.  Inestimable,  . 329 

287.  Campagna.  Slighter,  but  as  fine.  Morning,  . 330 

288.  Campagna.  Snowy  Apennines  in  distance,  . 338 

289. 

290.  Nymphseum  of  Alexander  Severus,  . . . k 105 

291.  Study  for  the  great  picture  of  the  Loggie  of 

Vatican, ullla 

292.  Naples,  from  the  South  (pencil),  . . . 333 

293.  Queen  Joanna’s  Palace  and  St.  Elmo  (pencil), . 305 

294.  Villas  at  Posilipo  (pencil),  ....  301 

295.  Naples  and  Vesuvius,  from  the  North  (color). 

296.  The  Castle  of  the  Egg.  Light  against  dark,  . 304 

297.  The  Castle  of  the  Egg.  Dark  against  light,  . 334 

298.  Vesuvius.  Beginning  of  finished  drawing,  , 335 

299.  Monte  St.  Angelo  and  Capri.  Morning,  , 336 

300.  Monte  St.  Angelo  and  Capri.  Evening,  . . 337 


FOUBTH  HUNDEED. 

The  fourth  century  of  drawings  are  all  of  the  later  middle 
period  of  Turner’s  career,  where  the  constant  reference  to  the 
engraver  or  the  Academy-visitor,  as  more  or  less  the  critic  or 
patron  of  his  work,  had  betrayed  him  into  mannerisms  and 
fallacies  which  gradually  undermined  the  constitution  of  his 
intellect : while  yet  his  manual  skill,  and  often  his  power  of 
imagination,  increased  in  certain  directions.  Some  of  the 
loveliest,  and  executively  the  most  wonderful,  of  his  drawings 
belong  to  this  period  ; but  few'  of  the  greatest,  and  none  of 
the  absolutely  best,  while  many  are  inexcusably  faultful  or 
false.  With  few  exceptions,  they  ought  not  to  be  copied  by 
students,  for  the  best  of  them  are  inimitable  in  the  modes  of 
execution  peculiar  to  Turner,  and  are  little  exemplary  other- 
wise. 

The  initial  group  of  this  class,  the  thirteenth  in  consecutive 
order,  contains  the  best  of  the  vignettes  executed  in  illustra- 
tion of  Kogers’  Pleasures  of  Memory,”  “ Voyage  of  Column 


324 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


bus,”  and  other  minor  poems.  In  most  cases  they  are  far 
more  highly  finished  than  those  of  the  “ Italy  ; ” but  few  show 
equal  power,  and  none  the  frank  sincerity.  The  two  best  of 
all  had  much  in  common  with  the  Italian  series,  and  have 
been  placed  with  it ; but  “ The  Twilight  ” (301),  “ Green- 
wich” (306),  “Bolton  Abbey  ” (311),  “ Yallombre”  (316),  and 
“Departure  of  Columbus”  (321),  are  among  the  subtlest  exam- 
ples of  the  artist’s  peculiar  manner  at  this  period  ; and  all,  as 
now  arranged  up  to  the  number  325,  have  a pretty  connection 
and  sequence,  illustrative  of  the  painter’s  thought,  no  less  than 
of  the  poet’s. 

They  have  a farther  interest,  as  being  the  origin  of  the 
loveliest  engravings  ever  produced  by  the  pure  line  ; and  I 
hope  in  good  time  that  proofs  of  the  plates  may  be  exhibited 
side  by  side  with  the  drawings.  In  arranging  the  twenty-five 
excellent  ones  just  described,  I have  thrown  out  several  un- 
worthy of  Turner — which,  however,  since  they  cannot  be  sep- 
arated from  their  proper  gTOup,  follow  it,  numbering  from  326 
to  335 ; the  gaps  being  filled  up  by  various  studies  for  vignettes 
of  the  “Italy”  as  well  as  the  “Poems,”  which  I extricated 
from  the  heaps  of  loose  sketches  in  the  tin  cases. 


GKOUP  XIII. 


(Fourth  Hundred.) 


301. 

Twilight, 

. 226 

302. 

Gypsies, 

. 231 

303. 

The  Native  Village, 

. 227 

304. 

Greenwich,  ..... 

. 234 

305. 

The  Water-gate  of  the  Tower, 

. 235 

306. 

St.  Anne’s  Hill,  .... 

. 228 

307. 

St.  Anne’s  Hill,  .... 

. 229 

308. 

The  Old  Oak  in  Life,  . 

. 232 

309. 

The  Old  Oak  in  Death, 

. 233 

310. 

The  Boy  of  Egremont, 

. 236 

SKETCHES  BT  TURNER.  325 


311. 

Bolton  Abbey,  .... 

. . 

. 237 

312. 

St.  Herbert’s  Isle,  Derwentwater.  (Ideal),  . 

. 238 

313. 

Lodore, 

♦ • 

. 239 

314. 

Loch  Lomond,  .... 

• • 

. 240 

315. 

Jacqueline’s  Cottage.  (Ideal), 

• • 

. 241 

316. 

The  Falls  at  Vallombre.  (Ideal), 

• • 

. 243 

317. 

The  Alps  at  Daybreak.  (Ideal), . 

• • 

. 242 

318. 

The  Captive.  (Ideal),  . 

• • 

. 245 

319. 

St.  Julian’s  Well.  (Ideal),  . 

• • 

. 244 

320. 

Columbus  at  La  Rabida,  . . 

• • 

. 246 

321. 

Departure  of  Columbus, 

• 

. 247 

322. 

Dawn  on  the  last  day  of  the  Voyage, 

• • 

. 248 

323. 

Morning  in  America, 

• • 

. 249 

324. 

Cortez  and  Pizarro, 

• • 

. 250 

325. 

Datur  Hora  Quieti, 

• • 

. 397 

Next  follow  the  inferior  ones ; among  which  the  pretty 
“ Rialto  ” is  degraded  because  there  is  no  way  over  the  bridge, 
and  the  “Ducal  Palace”  for  its  coarse  black  and  red  color. 
So  also  the  “Manor-house,”  though  Mr.  Goodall  made  a quite 
lovely  vignette  from  it  ; as  also  from  the  “Warrior  Ghosts.” 


326.  The  English  Manor-house,  ....  399 

327.  The  English  School, 396 

328.  The  English  Fair, 398 

329.  Venice.  The  Ducal  Palace,  ....  391 

330.  Venice.  The  Rialto,  .....  394 

331.  The  Simoom, . 393 

332.  The  War-spirits, 400 

333.  The  Warrior  Ghosts, 395 

334.  Study  for  the  Warrior  Ghosts,  . . . k 87a 

335.  Second  study  for  the  same  vignette,  . . k 876 


* And  tlie  figures  absurd  ; but  by  Rogers’  fault,  not  Turner’s.  See 
the  very  foolish  poem. 


326 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


GKOUP  XIV. 

{Fourth  Hundred.) 

RIVERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

This  most  valuable  group  consists  of  fifteen  finished  draw- 
ings, which  always  remained  in  Turner’s  possession,  he  refus- 
ing to  sell  separately,  and  the  public  of  his  time  not  caring 
to  buy  in  mass. 

They  were  made  for  publication  by  engraving ; and  were 
skilfully  engraved  ; but  only  in  mezzotint.  They  are  of  the 
highest  quality,  in  so  far  as  work  done  for  engraving  can  be, 
and  all  finished  with  the  artist’s  best  skill.  Two  of  the  series 
of  fifteen  are  placed  in  the  Student’s  group,  and  room  thus 
made  for  two  of  the  “ Ports,”  which  are  consecutive  with  the 
following  group  : 


336. 

Stangate  Creek,  (on  River)  Medway, 

• 

. 161 

337. 

Totness, 

<( 

Dart, 

• 

. 162 

338. 

Dartmouth, 

it 

Dart, 

. 163 

339. 

Dartmouth  Castle, 

it 

Dart, 

• 

. 164 

340. 

Okehampton  Castle, 

it 

Okement, 

• 

. 165 

341. 

Arundel  Castle, 

it 

Arun, 

• 

. 166 

342. 

Arundel  Park, 

it 

Arun, 

• 

. 167 

343. 

More  Park, 

it 

Colne,  . 

• 

. 168 

344. 

Newcastle, 

a 

Tyne,  . 

• 

. 171 

345. 

Kirkstall  Abbey, 

it 

Aire, 

• 

. 173 

346. 

Kirkstall  Lock, 

a 

Aire, 

• 

. 172 

347. 

Brougham  Castle, 

it 

Lowther, 

• 

. 174 

348. 

Norham  Castle, 

it 

Tweed,  . 

• 

. 175 

349. 

Whitby, 

• 

• • • 

• 

.170 

350. 

Scarborough, 

• 

• • • 

• 

. 169 

SKETCHES  BY  TUBNEB. 


327 


GROUP  XV. 

{Fourth  Hundred,) 

PORTS  OF  ENGLAND. 


Five  finished  drawings,  nearly  related  in  style  to  the  Rivers  ; 
but  nobler,  and  two  of  them  (“The  Humber”  and  “Sheer- 
ness ”)  among  the  greatest  of  Turner  s existing  works. 

The  “Whitby”  and  “Scarborough”  belong  nominally  to 
this  group,  but  in  style  they  are  like  the  Rivers,  with  which  I 
have  placed  them  ; of  course  consulting  in  these  fillings  up  of 
series,  the  necessary  divisions  into  five  adopted  for  the  sake 
of  portability.  The  seven  drawings  were  illustrated  in  their 
entirety  to  the  best  of  my  power  in  the  text  of  the  work  in 
which  they  were  published — the  “Harbors  of  England.” 

Five  finished  drawings  of  very  high  quality,  made  for  mez- 
zotint engraving,  and  admirably  rendered  by  Mr.  Lupton 
under  Turner’s  careful  superintendence. 


351.  The  Humber, 

352.  The  Medway, 

353.  Portsmouth, 

354.  Sheerness, 

355.  Ramsgate,  . 


. 378 
. 376 
. 379 
. 380 
. 377 


GROUP  XVI. 

{Fourth  Hundred.) 

Twenty-five  sketches,  chiefly  in  Venice.  Late  time,  extrav- 
agant, and  showing  some  of  the  painter’s  worst  and  final 
faults ; but  also,  some  of  his  peculiar  gifts  in  a supreme  de- 
gree. 


328 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


356. 

The  Ducal  Palace, 

. 351 

357. 

The  Custom  House, 

. 355 

358. 

The  Grand  Canal, 

. 352 

359. 

Casa  Grimani  and  Rialto, 

. 354 

360. 

The  Rialto,  . 

. 353 

361. 

Grand  Canal  above  Rialto, 

. 356 

362. 

On  the  Cross-canal  between 

Bridge  of 

Sighs 

and 

Rialto,  . • • 

. 358 

363. 

The  same,  nearer. 

. 359 

364. 

Cross-canal  neai’  Arsenal, 

. 357 

365. 

San  Stefano, 

. 360 

366. 

South  side  of  St.  Mark’s, 

. 291 

367. 

Ducal  Palace, 

. 292 

368. 

Boats  on  the  Giudecca,  . 

. 293 

369. 

Steamers, 

. 361 

370. 

? 

. 362 

371. 

Tours,  .... 

. 363 

372. 

? 

. 364 

373. 

? 

. 365 

374. 

? 

. 366 

375. 

? 

. 367 

376. 

?..... 

. 368 

377. 

? 

. 369 

378. 

? 

. 370 

379. 

Arsenal,  Venice,  . 

. 371 

380. 

Fish  Market, 

372 

GROUP  XVII. 
{Fourth  Hundred.) 

VARIOUS.  (latest.) 


381.  ? 381 

382.  ? 382 

383.  Saumur, 383 


384.  Namur,  384 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


329 


385. 

386. 

Chateau  d’Arc? 

. 386 

387. 

North  Transept,  Rouen, 

. 387 

388. 

Avignon,  .... 

. 388 

389. 

Namur,  .... 

. 389 

390. 

391. 

Rome, 

. 251 

392. 

The  Cascades,  Tivoli,  . 

. 254 

393. 

Rome,  ..... 

. 257 

394 

Rome,  The  Coliseum,  . 

. 261 

395. 

Rome,  ..... 

. 270 

396. 

Studies  of  Sky, 

. 296 

397. 

Scotland  ? . . . . 

. 297 

398. 

The  Tiber,  .... 

. 298 

399. 

The  Capitol  from  Temple  of? 

. 299 

400. 

Bridges  in  the  Campagna, 

. 300 

GROUP  XVIII. 

(Fifth  Hundred.') 

FINEST  COLOR  ON  GRAY.  (lATE.) 

Twenty-five  rapid  studies  in  color  on  gray  paper.  Of  his 
best  late  time,  and  in  his  finest  manner,  giving  more  condi- 
tions of  solid  form  than  have  ever  been  expressed  by  means 
at  once  so  subtle  and  rapid. 


401.  Full  sails  on  Seine, 101 

402.  The  breeze  beneath  the  Coteau,  ....  102 

403.  Heavy  barges  in  a gust,  . , , . .103 

404.  French  lugger  under  the  Heve,  ....  104 

405.  The  steamer,  .......  105 

406.  Havre,  .........  106 

407.  Havre,  ........  . 107 

408.  Harfleur,  . * « . . . . . 108 


330 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


409. 

Honfleur  in  distance,  . 

. 113 

410. 

Honfleur  ? Compare  Seine  series, 

. 110 

411. 

Cherbourg,  .... 

• 

. Ill 

412. 

Cherbourg,  .... 

• 

. 112 

413. 

Street  with  canal,  . 

• 

. 109 

414. 

Kouen,  .... 

• 

. 114 

415. 

The  Gray  Castle,  , 

• 

. 115 

416. 

Nantes,  .... 

• 

. 116 

417. 

Nantes  ? . . . . 

• 

. 117 

418. 

Angers?  .... 

• 

. 118 

419. 

Beaugency,  .... 

• 

. 119 

420. 

Beaugency,  .... 

• 

. 120 

421. 

Chateau  de  Blois, . 

• 

. 121 

422. 

Chateau  Hamelin, 

• 

. 122 

423. 

? 

• 

. 123 

424. 

? 

• 

. 124 

425. 

Tours?  The  Scarlet  Sunset, 

• 

. 125 

This  last  magnificent  drawing  belongs  properly  to  the  next 
group,  which  is  almost  exclusively  formed  by  drawings  in 
which  the  main  element  is  color,  at  once  deep  and  glowing. 
But  the  consistency  of  the  group  is  in  color  and  treatment ; 
and  in  the  uniform  determination  of  the  artist  that  every  sub- 
ject shall  at  least  have  a castle  and  a crag  in  it — if  possible  a 
river ; or  by  Fortune’s  higher  favor — blue  sea,  and  that  all 
trees  shall  be  ignored,  as  shady  and  troublesome  excres- 
cences. In  default  of  locality,  I have  put  here  and  there  a 
word  of  note  or  praise. 


GKOUP  XIX. 
[Fifth  Hundred.) 


FINEST  COLOR  ON  GRAY.  (LATEST.) 

426. 

Rhine.  (Yellow  raft  essential), 

. 176 

427. 

Too  red  and  yellow.  Full  of  power  in  form, 

. 177 

428. 

Delicate,  and  very  lovely,  .... 

. 178 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


331 


429. 

430. 

431. 

432. 

433. 

434. 

435. 
43G. 

437. 

438. 

439. 

440. 

441. 

442. 

443. 

444. 

445. 
44G. 

447. 

448. 

449. 

450. 


Ehine  ? or  Danube  ? Very  grand,  . . .179 

Bacharach.  Wonderful,  but  too  wild,  . . . 180 

Best  quality — all  but  the  white  chalk,  . . . 181 

Heidelberg.  Kosy  tower,  and  a tree  or  two  ! 

Lovely, 182 

Such  things  are,  though  you  mayn’t  believe  it,  . 183 
Dinant,  Meuse.  A mighty  one,  ....  184 
Dinant.  Bronzed  sunset.  Firm  and  good,  . . 185 

Luxembourg.  Splendid,  .....  186 
Luxembourg.  Forced,  and  poor,  . . . 187 

Luxembourg.  Higliest  quality,  ....  188 
Luxembourg.  Supreme  of  the  set,  except,  . . 189 

Luxembourg.  Probably  the  grandest  drawing  of 

this  date, 190 

Luxembourg.  Too  blue  and  red,  but  noble,  . 191 
Meuse.  Admirable,  but  incomplete,  . . .192 

Coast  of  Genoa?  Good,  but  dull,  . . . 193 

Coast  of  Genoa  ? Highest  quality,  . . . 194 

Italian  lakes?  Supreme  of  all,  for  color,  . . 195 

Marseilles?  Splendid,  but  harsh,  . . .196 

Biviera?  Fine,  but  a little  hard  and  mannered,  . 197 
Sorrento  coast  ? Sunset.  Lovely,  . . .198 

Vico  ? coast  of  Sorrento.  The  same  type : poorer,  199 
The  Vermilion  Palace, 200 


I know  scarcely  any  of  their  subjects  except  the  Luxem- 
bourgs  ; and  have  therefore  left  them  in  their  first  rough 
arrangement ; although  subjects  probably  Genovese  and  South 
Italian  are  mixed  with  others  from  Germany  and  the  Bhine, 


GBOUP  XX. 

(Fifth  Hundred.) 

STUDIES  ON  GRAY  FOR  RIVERS  OF  FRANCE.  (lATE.) 

451.  Four  studies  at  Marly  and  Bouen,  , , ,26 

452.  Two  studies  in  France  and 

Two  studies  for  a picture,  . ....  27 


332  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


453.  Four  studies  in  France, 28 

454.  Four  studies  in  France, 29 

455.  Two  studies  at  Boulogne  and 

Two  studies  at  Ambleteuse,  . w • .30 

456.  Four  studies  at  Calais,  . . . . . .31 

457.  Four  studies  in  France,  . . . . .32 

458.  Four  English  marine  studies,  . . . .33 

459.  Bouen,  in  France  : two  marine  studies,  . . 34 

460.  On  the  Bhine,  St.  Germain,  Dieppe,  on  the  Seine,  35 

(The  above  ten,  pen  and  ink  on  gray.) 

461.  Orleans,  Tours  (color  on  gray),  . . . . 36 

462.  On  the  Seine  ? (color  on  gray),  . . . .38 

463.  Luxembourg?  Huy  on  the  Meuse  (color  on  gray),  39 

464.  Honfleur,  Honfleur  ? (color  on  gray),  , . .40 

465.  Liber  Studiorum  subjects,  two  Lake  of  Thun, 

Mont  St.  Gothard,  Ville  de  Thun  (pencil),  . 37 


GBOIJP  XXI. 

(Fifth  Hundred.) 

THE  SEINE. 

In  this  series  the  best  drawings  are  as  far  as  possible  put 
together — geographical  order  being  ignored,  rather  than  mix 
the  second-rate  ones  with  those  of  entirely  satisfactory  quality. 
But  the  course  of  subject  for  the  most  part  is  in  ascent  of  the 
river ; and  the  two  vignettes  begin  and  end  the  whole. 


466.  Chateau  Gaillard.  Vignette,  ....  151 

467.  Havre.  Sunset  in  the  port, 157 

468.  Havre.  Twilight  outside  the  port,  . . . 158 

469.  Tancarville, 153 

470.  Tancarville  and  Quilleboeuf,  .....  154 

471.  QuiUeboeuf,  . 127 

472.  Between  Quilleboeuf  and  Villequier,  . . . 128 

473.  Honfleur, 159 


SKETCHES  BT  TURNER. 


474.  Harfleur, 126 

475.  Caudebec, . . 129 

476.  Lillebonne, 134 

477.  Lillebonne,  ........  135 

478.  La  Chaise  de  Gargantua,  .....  130 

479.  Jumieges, 165 

480.  Vernon, 152 

481.  Kouen,  looking  up  river, 131 

482.  Eouen,  looking  down  river, 132 

483.  Eouen  Cathedral, 133 

484.  Pont  de  I’Arche, 136 

485.  Chateau  Gaillard, 137 

486.  Mantes,  ........  139 

487.  Between  Mantes  and  Vernon,  ....  138 

488.  St.  Germain,  .......  146 

489.  Bridges  of  St.  Cloud  and  Sevres,  ....  147 

490.  Bridge  of  Sevres, 148 

491.  Lantern  of  St.  Cloud,  ......  156 

492.  Barriere  de  Passy, 141 

493.  The  Flower-market, 144 

494.  The  Dog-market, 143 

495.  PontNeuf,  ........  142 

496.  St.  Denis,  ........  145 

497.  The  Bridge  of  Meulan, 140 

498.  Melun, 149 

499.  Troyes, 150 

500.  Vignette.  Light  towers  of  the  H6ve,  . , . 160 


TEEMIl^AL  INDEX, 


I 


In  the  first  column  are  the  numbers  in  the  existing  arrangement ; in 
the  second  the  numbers  in  this  Catalogue  ; and  in  the  third  the  page  in 
this  Catalogue.  The  stars  indicate  the  drawings  not  included  in  the  ( 

revised  Catalogue,  as  adapted  rather  for  exhibition  in  the  provinces.  | 


FIRST  SECTION. 
Kensington  Series.  1 to  153. 


1 . 

31 

306 

25  a 

218 

318 

*2 

25  6 

220 

318 

3 a,  5,  and  c 

1 

304 

26  a 

221 

• 

318 

4 . 

3 

304 

26  6 

222 

• 

318 

5 a and  b 

33 

306 

27 

54 

• 

308 

6 a and  b 

26 

305 

*28 

*7 

29  a 

224 

318 

8 . 

52 

308 

29  6 

215 

318 

9 

51 

308 

30  fit 

204 

• 

318 

10  . 

6 

* 

304 

30  6 

216 

M 

* 

318 

11 

12 

304 

dla 

214 

• 

318 

12 

53 

308 

31  6 

202 

• 

318 

13  . 

7 

304 

•32 

201 

318 

14 

8 

304 

33 

• 

11 

304 

*15 

34 

• 

72 

, 

309 

16  a to  e 

10 

304 

35 

• 

65 

308 

17  rt,  and  c 

5 

304 

*36 

18  a.  b,  and  c 

4 

304 

*37 

*19 

38 

• 

128 

• 

313 

20  . 

39 

306 

39 

• 

• 

34 

306 

21  a and  b 

9 

304 

40 

• 

• 

35 

• 

306 

22  a . 

106 

312 

41 

• 

• 

67 

308 

22  6 . 

107 

312 

42 

• 

66 

308 

♦23 

*43 

*24 

44 

64 

308 

DBA^yIN08  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER,  335 


45 

24 

305 

46 

25 

» « 

305 

*47 

*48 

*49 

*50 

51 

36 

306 

52 

38 

306 

53 

56 

308 

54 

37 

306 

55 

50 

* 

307 

*56 

*57 

58 

57 

308 

59 

116 

* 

312 

♦60 

20 

305 

61 

41 

306 

*62 

19 

305 

63 

60 

308 

64 

58 

308 

65 

59 

308 

*66 

67 

63 

308 

68 

61 

308 

69 

62 

308 

70 

14 

305 

71 

16 

. 

305 

*72 

73 

17 

. 

305 

*74 

75 

82 

309 

76 

29 

• 

305 

77 

74 

309 

78 

89 

309 

79 

90 

309 

80 

76 

309 

81 

75 

e 

309 

82 

77 

309 

83 

78 

309 

84 

79 

309 

85 

80 

309 

86 

81 

309 

87  a 

334 

, * 

325 

87  6 

335 

325 

*88 

94 

. 310 

a . 

156 

. 315 

b . 

154 

. 315 

95 

. 310 

96 

. 310 

97 

. 310 

98 

. 310 

99 

. 310 

a . 

169 

. 315 

b . 

170 

. 315 

c . 

100 

. 310 

251 

. 321 

256 

. 321 

252 

. 321 

290 

. 323 

23 

. 305 

271 

. 322 

a . 

. 291 

. 3^3 

b . 

. 262 

. 321 

. 45 

. 307 

. 44 

. 307 

. 46 

. 307 

. 47 

. 307 

. 43 

. 307 

. 48 

. 307 

. 18 

. 305 

. 13 

. 304 

. 55 

. 308 

* 

. 68 

. 308 

. 69 

. 308 

, 

. 70 

. 308 

. 71 

. 309 

*89 

*90 

*91 

*92 

93 

94 

94 

95 

96 

97 

98 

99 

100 

100 

100 

101 

102 

103 

*104 

105 

*106 

♦107 

*108 

*109 

*110 

111 

111 

112 

♦113 

*114 

115 

116 

117 

118 

119 

120 

121 

122 

*123 

*124 

125 

126 

127 

128 

*129 


336  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


*130 

142  . 

. 93 

. 310 

*131 

143  . 

. 15 

. 305 

133  . 

. 73 

. 309 

144  . 

. 32 

. 306 

133  . 

. 83 

. 309 

145  . 

. 2 . 

. 304 

134  . 

. 88 

. 309 

146  . 

. 42 

, 307 

135  . 

. 85 

. 309 

147  . 

. 28 

. 305 

136  . 

. 86 

. 309 

148  . 

. 27 

. 305 

137  . 

. 87 

. 309 

149  . 

. 40 

. 306 

138  . 

. 30 

. 305 

*150 

139  . 

. 84 

. 309 

*151 

*140 

152  . 

. 91 

. 310 

♦141 

153  . 

. 92 

. 310 

SECOND  SECTION. 

Drawings  now  framed  and  placed  in  Cabinets. 
Nos.  1 TO  400. 


The  stars,  as  in  the  first  section,  indicate  drawings  recommended  for 
provincial  exhibition. 


*1 

23 

223 

318 

*2 

24 

217 

318 

3 . 

. 213 

. 318 

25 

225 

818 

*4 

*26 

451 

331 

5 . 

. 203 

* 

. 318 

♦27 

452 

331 

*6 

*28 

453 

332 

*7 

*29 

454 

332 

*8 

*30 

455 

• 

332 

9 . 

. 205 

* 

. 318 

♦31 

456 

• 

* 

332 

10 

. 206 

. 318 

*32 

457 

• 

332 

11 

. 208 

. 318 

*33 

458 

• 

332 

12  . 

. 207 

. 318 

♦34 

459 

• 

332 

•13 

*35 

460 

• 

• 

332 

14  . 

. 209 

. 318 

*36 

461 

• 

332 

*15 

*37 

465 

332 

*16 

♦38 

462 

* 

332 

17 

. 210 

. 318 

*39 

463 

332 

18  . 

. 211 

. 318 

*40 

464 

332 

19 

. 212 

. 318 

41 

140 

314 

*20 

42  - 

139 

• 

• 

314 

•21 

♦43 

22 

. 219 

, 

. 318 

44  . 

141 

• 

• 

314 

45 

46 

47 

48 

49 

50 

51 

52 

53 

54 

55 

56 

57 

58 

59 

60 

61 

62 

63 

64 

65 

66 

67 

68 

69 

70 

*71 

72 

73 

*74 

75 

*76 

77 

78 

79 

80 

81 

82 

83 

84 

85 

86 

87 

88 

89 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  .337 


138 

, 

314 

i 90 

165 

315 

146 

314 

! 91 

143 

314 

132 

314 

i 92 

144 

314 

157 

, 

315 

i *93 

147 

314 

94 

177 

315 

142 

* 

314 

95 

145 

314 

181 

316 

96 

137 

314 

182 

316 

97 

179 

315 

183 

, 

316 

98 

180 

315 

184 

316 

99 

178 

315 

185 

316 

100 

135 

314 

186 

316 

101 

401 

329 

187 

, 

316 

102 

402 

329 

188 

316 

|103 

403 

329 

189 

316 

104 

404 

329 

190 

316 

105 

405 

329 

191 

316 

106 

406 

329 

192 

316 

il07 

* 

407 

329 

193 

316 

108 

408 

329 

194 

316 

il09 

413 

330 

195 

316 

illO 

410 

330 

196 

316 

111 

411 

, 

330 

197 

316 

112 

412 

330 

198 

316 

113 

, 

409 

• 

330 

199 

316 

114 

414 

• 

330 

200 

316 

115 

415 

• 

330 

116 

416 

330 

131 

* 

314 

117 

417 

e 

330 

133 

, 

314 

118 

418 

330 

119 

, 

419 

330 

176 

315 

120 

420 

330 

121 

421 

330 

166 

315 

122 

422 

330 

159 

* 

315 

123 

423 

330 

160 

315! 

124 

424 

• 

330 

134 

314 

125 

425 

• 

330 

136 

314 

126 

474 

• 

333 

158 

315 

127 

471 

• 

332 

148 

• 

315 

128 

472 

332 

129 

475 

333 

149 

, 

315 

130 

478 

• 

333 

161 

, 

315 

131 

481 

333 

162 

315 

132 

482 

• 

333 

133 

315 

133 

483 

• 

333 

164 

• 

315 

134 

O 

476 

« 

• 

333 

22 


338 

135 

136 

137 

138 

139 

140 

141 

142 

143 

144 

145 

146 

147 

148 

149 

150 

151 

152 

153 

154 

155 

156 

157 

158 

159 

160 

161 

162 

163 

164 

165 

166 

167 

168 

169 

170 

171 

172 

173 

174 

175 

176 

177 

178 

179 


331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

331 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 

320 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


477 

333 

180 

430 

484 

• 

333 

181 

431 

483 

333 

182 

, 

432 

487 

333 

183 

433 

486 

333 

184 

, 

434 

497 

333 

185 

435 

492 

333 

186 

436 

495 

333 

187 

• 

437 

494 

• 

333 

188 

, 

438 

493 

333 

189 

• 

439  . 

. 

496 

* 

333 

190 

440 

488 

333 

191 

441 

. 

489 

333 

192 

, 

442 

490 

333 

193 

443 

498 

333 

194 

444 

499 

333 

195 

, 

445 

466 

, 

332 

196 

446 

480 

333 

197 

447 

469 

332 

198 

, 

448 

470 

332 

199 

449 

479 

, 

333 

200 

450 

. 

491 

333 

201 

246 

467 

332 

202 

240 

468 

. 

332 

203 

231 

473 

332 

204 

, 

232 

600 

333 

205 

, 

228 

336 

326 

206 

248 

337 

326 

207 

233 

338 

326 

208 

235 

339 

, 

326 

209 

• 

Reserved 

340 

326 

210 

• 

. , 

226 

341 

326 

211 

• 

* 

230 

342 

326 

212 

229 

343 

326 

213 

• 

227 

350 

326 

214 

• 

238 

349 

, 

326 

215 

• 

234 

344 

326 

216 

• 

241 

346 

326 

217 

236 

345 

326 

218 

, 

242 

347 

, 

326 

219 

243 

348 

326 

220 

249 

. 

426 

330 

221 

♦ 

239 

427 

330 

222 

245 

428 

, 

330 

223 

237 

. 

429 

• 

331 

224 

. 

244 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  339 


225  . 

. 247 

320 

270 

, 

395 

329 

226  . 

. 301 

324 

271 

276 

322 

227  , 

. 303 

324 

272 

272 

, 

822 

228  . 

. 308 

324 

273 

, 

266 

* 

322 

229  . 

. 309 

, 

324 

274 

278 

322 

230  . 

. 250 

320 

275 

. 

275 

322 

231  . 

. 302 

324 

^276 

232  . 

. 304 

324 

1 ^:-2,77 

233  . 

. 305 

324 

i 278 

234  . 

. 306 

324 

*279 

153 

315 

235  . 

. 307 

324 

1 280 

155 

315 

238  . 

. 310 

, 

324 

*281 

237  . 

. 311 

825 

*282 

151 

315 

238  . 

. 312 

325 

*283 

152 

315 

239  . 

. 313 

825 

*284 

150 

315 

240  . 

. 314 

825 

285 

174 

315 

241  . 

. 315 

825 

286 

175 

315 

242  . 

. 317 

325 

287 

172 

315 

243  . 

. 316 

825 

288 

173 

315 

244  . 

. 319 

325 

289 

171 

* 

315 

245  . 

. 318 

325 

290 

168 

315 

246  . 

. 320 

325  1 

*291 

366 

328 

247  . 

. 321 

325  t 

*292 

367 

328 

248  . 

. 322 

825 

*293 

368 

* 

328 

249  , 

. 323 

325  j 

*294 

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. 324 

325  ' 

*295 

251  . 

. 391 

829 

*296 

396 

329 

252  . 

. 282 

322 

*297 

397 

, 

329 

253  . 

. 270 

322 

*298 

398 

329 

254 

*299 

399 

329 

255  . 

. 257 

821 

*300 

400 

329 

256  . 

. 268 

322 

801 

294 

323 

257 

. 263 

821 

302 

281 

, 

822 

258  . 

. 269 

822 

303 

283 

322 

259  . 

. 265 

822 

304 

296 

823 

260  . 

. 279 

* 

322 

305 

293 

323 

201  . 

. 394 

329 

306 

108 

312 

202  . 

. 255 

321 

307 

, 

105 

, 

312 

263  . 

. 254 

321 

308 

115 

312 

204  . 

. 258 

321 

309 

103 

312 

205  . 

. 277 

322 

310 

104 

312 

266  . 

. 260 

321 

311 

101 

312 

267  . 

. 264 

321 

312 

. 

113 

• 

312 

268  . 

. 259 

321 

313 

102 

• 

812 

269  . 

. 267 

322 

, 314 

114 

• 

312 

340  DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


*315 

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362 

328 

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363 

. 

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332 

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825 

GUIDE 

TO 

THE  PKIHCIPAL  PICTUKES 

IN  THE 

ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS 

AT 

YEHICE. 

ARRANGED  FOR  ENGLISH  TRAVELLERS 

BT 

JOHN  RUSKIN, 

SLADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINK  ART,  OXFORD,  AND  HONORARY  ASSOCIATE  OF  THE  ACADEMY 

OF  VENICE. 


• ■- ■-•'■- ■-- ■ •-  ^ ;iR.- ■■  ■ .''.feK 


■ ’ " •'  ' :vW-  ■.'■  -■  . 

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,/:*f''  ■■  -''rr -’■•I''' 


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■J  . i >ie  ’ 


iiy’  -^..ijiii)i‘*^i 


■■  --Mi 


GUIDE,  ETC. 


PAET  I. 

Over  the  entrance  gate  of  the  Academy  are  three  of  the 
most  precious  pieces  of  sculpture  in  Venice  ; her  native  work, 
dated  ; and  belonging  to  the  school  of  severe  Gothic  which 
indicates  the  beginning  of  her  Christian  life  in  understanding 
of  its  real  claims  upon  her. 

St.  Leonard  on  the  left,  St.  Christopher  on  the  right,  under 
Gothic  cusped  niches.  The  Madonna  in  the  centre,  under  a 
simple  gable;  the  bracket-cornice  beneath  bearing  date  1345; 
the  piece  of  sculpture  itself  engaged  in  a rectangular  panel, 
which  is  the  persistent  sign  of  the  Greek  schools  ; descending 
from  the  Metopes  of  the  Parthenon. 

You  see  the  infant  sprawls  on  lier  knee  in  an  ungainly  man- 
ner ; she  herself  sits  with  quiet  maiden  dignity,  but  in  no 
manner  of  sentimental  adoration. 

That  is  Venetian  naturalism  ; showing  their  henceforward 
steady  desire  to  represent  things  as  they  really  (according  to 
the  workman’s  notions)  might  have  existed.  It  begins  first 
in  this  century,  separating  itself  from  the  Byzantine  formal- 
ism— the  movement  being  the  same  which  was  led  by  Giotto 
in  Florence  fifty  years  earlier.  These  sculptures  are  the  re- 
sult of  his  influence,  from  Padua,  and  other  such  Gothic  pov/- 
er,  rousing  Venice  to  do  and  think  for  herself,  instead  of 
letting  her  Greek  subjects  do  all  for  her.  This  is  one  of  her 
first  performances,  independently  of  them.  She  has  not  yet 
the  least  notion  of  making  anybody  stand  rightly  on  their 
feet ; you  see  how  St.  Leonard  and  St'.  Christopher  point  their 


344  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


toes.  Clearly,  until  we  know  how  to  do  better  than  this,  in 
perspective  and  such  matters,  our  painting  cannot  come  to 
much.  Accordingly,  all  the  Venetian  painting  of  any  impor- 
tance 3"ou  are  now  to  see  in  the  Academy  is  subsequent  to 
these  sculptures.  But  these  are,  fortunately,  dated — 1378 
and  1384.  Twenty  years  more  will  bring  us  out  of  the  four- 
teenth century.  And  therefore,  broadly,  all  the  painter’s  art 
of  Venice  begins  in  the  fifteenth  ; and  we  may  as  well  at  once 
take  note  that  it  ends  with  the  sixteenth.  There  are  only 
these  two  hundred  years  of  painting  in  Venice.  Now,  with- 
out much  pause  in  the  corridor,  though  the  old  well  in  the 
cortile  has  its  notabilities  if  one  had  time — up  the  spiral 
stairs,  and  when  you  have  entered  the  gallery  and  got  your 
admission  tickets  — (quite  a proper  arrangement  that  you 
should  pay  for  them  ; if  I were  a Venetian  prefect,  you  should 
pay  a good  deal  more  for  leave  to  come  to  Venice  at  all,  that 
I might  be  sure  you  cared  to  come) — walk  straight  forward 
till  you  descend  the  steps  into  the  first  room  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  Academy  catalogue.  On  your  right,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  steps,  you  see  a large  picture  (16)  in  a series  of 
compartments,  of  which  the  central  one,  the  Crowning  of  the 
Virgin,  was  painted  by  a Venetian  vicar  (vicar  of  St.  Agnes), 
in  1380.  A happy,  faithful,  cheerful  vicar  he  must  have  been  ; 
and  any  vicar,  rector,  or  bishop  who  could  do  such  a thing 
now  would  be  a blessing  to  his  parish,  and  delight  to  his 
diocese.  Symmetrical,  orderly,  gay,  and  in  the  heart  of  it 
nobly  grave,  this  work  of  the  old  Plebanus  has  much  in  it  of 
the  future  methods  of  Venetian  composition.  The  two  an- 
gels peeping  over  the  arms  of  the  throne  may  remind  you  to 
look  at  its  cusped  arches,  for  we  are  here  in  central  Gothic 
time,  thirty  years  after  the  sea-fa9ade  of  the  Ducal  Palace  had 
been  built. 

Now,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  over  the  door  lead- 
ing into  the  next  room,  you  see  (1)  in  the  Academy  catalogue 
“ The  work  of  Bartholomew  Vivarini  of  Murano,  1464,”  show- 
ing you  what  advance  had  been  made  in  eighty  years.  The 
figures  still  hard  in  outline  — thin  (except  the  Madonna’s 
throat,  which  always,  in  Venice,  is  strong  as  a pillar),  and 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  345 


much  marked  in  sinew  and  bone  (studied  from  life,  mind  you, 
not  by  dissection) ; exquisitely  delicate  and  careful  in  pure 
color ; in  character,  portraits  of  holy  men  and  women,  such 
as  then  were.  There  is  no  idealism  here  whatever.  Monks 
and  nuns  had  indeed  faces  and  mien  like  these  saints,  when 
they  desired  to  have  the  saints  painted  for  them. 

A noble  picture  ; not  of  any  supreme  genius,  but  complete- 
ly containing  the  essence  of  Venetian  art. 

Next,  going  under  it,  through  the  door,  you  find  yourself 
in  the  principal  room  of  the  Academy,  which  please  cross 
quietly  to  the  window  opposite,  on  the  left  of  which  hangs  a 
large  picture  which  you  will  have  great  difficulty  in  seeing  at 
all,  hung  as  it  is  against  the  light  ; and  which,  in  any  of  its 
finer  qualities,  you  absolutely  cannot  see  ; but  may  yet  per- 
ceive what  they  are,  latent  in  that  darkness,  which  is  all  the 
honor  that  the  kings,  nobles,  and  artists  of  Europe  care  to 
bestow  on  one  of  the  greatest  pictures  ever  painted  by 
Christendom  in  her  central  art-power.  Alone  worth  an  entire 
modern  exhibition-building,  hired  fiddlers  and  all ; here  you 
liave  it  jammed  on  a back  wall,  utterly  unserviceable  to 
human  kind,  the  little  angels  of  it  fiddling  unseen,  unheard 
by  anybody’s  heart.  It  is  the  best  John  Bellini  in  the  Acad- 
emy of  Venice  ; the  third  best  in  Venice,  and  probably  in  the 
world.  Repainted,  the  right-hand  angel,  and  somewhat 
elsewhere  ; but  on  the  whole  perfect ; unspeakably  good,  and 
right  in  ail  ways.  Not  inspired  with  any  high  religious 
passion  ; a good  man’s  work,  not  an  enthusiast’s.  It  is,  in 
principle,  merely  the  perfecting  of  Vivarini’s ; the  saints, 
mere  portraits  of  existing  men  and  women ; the  Madonna, 
idealized  only  in  that  squareness  of  face  and  throat,  not  in 
anywise  the  prettier  for  it,  otherwise  a quite  commonplace 
Venetian  woman.  Such,  and  far  lovelier,  you  may  see  living  to- 
day, if  you  can  see™and  may  make  manifest,  if  you  can  paint. 

And  now,  you  may  look  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  where 
Titian’s  “ Assumption  ” has  the  chairs  put  before  it  ; every- 
body being  expected  to  sit  down,  and  for  once,  without  ask- 
ing what  o’clock  it  is  at  the  railroad  station,  reposefully 
admire.  __  


346  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Of  which,  hear  first  what  I wrote,  very  rightly,  a quarter 
of  a century  ago. 

“The  traveller  is  generally  too  much  struck  by  Titian’s 
great  picture  of  ‘ The  Assumption  ’ to  be  able  to  pay  proper 
attention  to  the  other  works  in  this  gallery.  Let  him,  how- 
ever, ask  himself  candidly  how  much  of  his  admiration  is  de- 
pendent merely  on  the  picture’s  being  larger  than  any  other 
in  the  room,  and  having  bright  masses  of  red  and  blue  in  it ; 
let  him  be  assured  that  the  picture  is  in  reality  not  one  whit 
the  better  either  for  being  large  or  gaudy  in  color,  and  he 
will  then  be  better  disposed  to  give  the  pains  necessary  to  dis- 
cover the  merit  of  the  more  profound  works  of  Bellini  and 
Tintoret.” 

I wrote  this,  I have  said,  very  rightly,  not  quite  rightly. 
For  if  a picture  is  good,  it  is  better  for  being  large,  because 
it  is  more  difficult  to  paint  large  than  small ; and  if  color  is 
good,  it  may  he  better  for  being  bright. 

Nay,  the  fault  of  this  picture,  as  I read  it  now,  is  in  not  be- 
ing bright  enough.  A large  piece  of  scarlet,  two  large  pieces 
of  crimson,  and  some  very  beautiful  blue,  occupy  about  a 
fifth  part  of  it  ; but  the  rest  is  mostly  fox  color  or  dark 
brown  : majority  of  the  apostles  under  total  eclipse  of  brown. 
St.  John,  there  being  nobody  else  handsome  to  look  at,  is 
therefore  seen  to  advantage ; also  St.  Peter  and  his  beard  ; 
but  the  rest  of  the  lower  canvas  is  filled  with  little  more  than 
flourishings  of  arms  and  Singings  of  cloaks,  in  shadow  and 
light. 

However,  as  a piece  of  oil  painting,  and  what  artists  call 
“ composition,”  with  entire  grasp  and  knowledge  of  the  ac- 
tion of  the  human  body,  the  perspectives  of  the  human  face, 
and  the  relations  of  shade  to  color  in  expressing  form,  the 
picture  is  deservedly  held  unsurpassable.  Enjoy  of  it  what 
you  can  ; but  of  its  place  in  the  history  of  Venetian  art  ob- 
serve these  three  following  points : 

I.  The  throned  Madonnas  of  Vivarini  and  Bellini  were  to 
Venice  what  the  statue  of  Athena  in  the  Brazen  House  was  to 
Athens.  Not  at  all  supposed  to  he  Athena,  or  to  he  Madon- 
nas ; but  symbols,  by  help  of  which  they  conceived  the  pres- 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS,  347 


ence  with  them  of  a real  Goddess.  But  this  picture  of  Ti- 
tian’s does  not  profess  to  symbolize  any  Virgin  here  with  us, 
but  only  to  show  how  the  Virgin  was  taken  away  from  us  a 
long  time  ago.  And  professing  to  represent  this,  he  does  not 
in  the  least  believe  his  own  representation,  nor  expect  any- 
body else  to  believe  it.  He  does  not,  in  his  heart,  believe  the 
Assumption  ever  took  place  at  all.  He  is  merely  putting  to- 
gether a stage  decoration  of  clouds,  little  boys,  with  wings 
stuck  into  them,  and  pantomime  actors  in  studied  positions, 
to  amuse  his  Venice  and  himself. 

II.  Though  desirous  of  nothing  but  amusement,  he  is  not, 
at  heart,  half  so  much  amused  by  his  work  as  John  Bellini,  or 
one-quarter  so  much  amused  as  the  innocent  old  vicar.  On 
the  contrary,  a strange  gloom  has  been  cast  over  him,  he 
knows  not  why ; but  he  likes  all  his  colors  dark,  and  puts 
great  spaces  of  brown,  and  crimson  passing  into  black,  where 
the  older  painters  would  have  made  all  lively.  Painters  call 
this  “ chiaroscuro.”  So  also  they  may  call  a thunder-cloud  in 
the  sky  of  spring  ; but  it  means  more  than  light  and  shade. 

HI.  You  see  that  in  ail  the  three  earlier,  pictures  everybody 
is  quiet.  Here,  everybody  is  in  a bustle.  If  you  like  to  look  at 
my  pamphlet  on  the  relation  of  Tintoret  to  Michael  Angelo,  you 
will  see  how  this  comes  to  pass,  and  what  it  means.  And  that 
is  all  I care  for  your  noticing  in  the  Assumption,  just  now. 

Next,  look  on  right  and  left  of  it,  at  the  two  dark  pictui-es 
over  the  doors  (63,  25). 

Darkness  visible,  with  flashes  of  lightning  through  it.  The 
thunder-cloud  upon  us,  rent  with  fire. 

Those  are  Tintorets  ; finest  possible  Tintorets  ; best  pos- 
sible examples  of  what,  in  absolute  power  of  painting,  is  su- 
premest  work,  so  far  as  I know,  in  all  the  world. 

Nothing  comes  near  Tintoret  for  colossal  painter’s  power  as 
such.  But  you  need  not  think  to  get  any  good  of  these  pic- 
tures ; it  would  take  you  twenty  years’  work  to  understand 
the  fineness  of  them  as  painting  ; and  for  the  rest,  there  is 
little  good  in  them  to  be  got.  Adam  and  Eve  no  more  sat  iu 
that  warm-weather  picnic  manner,  helping  each  other  politely 
to  apples,  on  the  occasion  of  their  fall,  than  the  Madonna  went 


848  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


up  all  bending  about  in  her  red  and  blue  cloak  on  the  occasion 
of  her  Assumption.  But  of  the  wrong  and  the  truth,  the  error 
and  the  glory,  of  these  pictures,  I have  no  time  to  speak  now  ; 
nor  you  to  hear.  All  that  you  have  to  notice  is  that  painting 
has  now  become  a dark  instead  of  bright  art,  and  in  many 
ways  a frightful  and  unpleasant  art,  or  else  I will  add  once 
for  all,  referring  you  for  proof  of  it  to  the  general  examples  of 
Venetian  work  at  this  late  epoch,  supplied  as  a luxury  to  for- 
eign courts,  fi  lascivious  art.^ 

Nevertheless,  up  to  the  time  when  Tintoret  painted  the  Cru- 
cifixion in  the  Scuola  di  San  Kocco,  Venice  had  not  in  heart 
abjured  her  religion.  The  time  when  the  last  chord  of  its  faith 
gives  way  cannot  be  discerned,  to-day  and  hour  ; but  in  that 
day  and  hour  of  which,  for  external  sign,  Ave  may  best  take 
the  death  of  Tintoret  in  1594,  the  Arts  of  Venice  are  at  an  end. 

I have  therefore  now  shown  you  the  complete  course  of 
their  power,  from  1380  at  the  Academy  gates,  to  1594— say, 
broadly,  two  centuries  (her  previous  art  being  only  architect- 
ual,  mosaic,  or  decorative  sculpture).  We  will  now  go  through 
the  rooms,  noticing  what  is  best  worth  notice  in  each  of  the 
epochs  defined  ; essentially,  you  observe,  three.  The  first  Ave 
may  call  the  ViVarini  epoch,  bright,  innocent,  more  or  less 
elementary,  entirely  religious  art  — reaching  from  1400  to 
1480  ; the  second  (which  for  reasons  presently  to  be  shoAvn, 
we  will  call  the  Garpaccian  epoch),  sometimes  classic  and 
mythic,  as  Avell  as  religious,  1480-1520  ; the  third,  supreme- 
ly^ powerful  art  corrupted  by  taint  of  death,  1520-1600,  which 
Ave  will  call  the  Tintoret  epoch. 

Of  course  the  lives  of  the  painters  run  in  and  out  across 


* One  copy  of  Titian’s  work  bearing  such  commercial  value,  and  show- 
ing what  was  briefly  the  Gospel  preached  by  Missionary  Venice  to  for- 
eign nations  in  the  sixteenth  century,  you  will  find  presently  in  the 
narrow  corridor,  No.  347  : on  which  you  will  usually  also  find  some 
modern  copyist  employed,  for  missionary  purposes  ; but  never  on  a 
Vivarini.  And  in  thus  becoming  dark,  terrific,  and  sensual,  Venetian 
art  led  the  way  to  the  mere  naturalism  and  various  baseness  of  follow- 
ing European  art  with  the  rubbish  of  which  that  corridor  (Sala  ix.. 
Numbers  276  to  353)  is  mostly  filled. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  349 


these  limits  ; yet  if  you  fasten  these  firmly  in  your  mind — 80, 
40,  80 — you  will  find  you  have  an  immense  advantage  and 
easy  grip  of  the  whole  history  of  Venetian  art. 

In  the  first  epoch,  however,  I do  not  mean  to  detain  you ; 
but  the  room  you  first  entered,  into  which  I will  now  ask  you 
to  return,  is  full  of  pictures  which  you  will  find  interesting  if 
you  have  time  to  decipher  them,  and  care  for  Christianity  and 
its  expressions.  One  only  I will  ask  you  to  look  at,  after 
Titian’s  Assumption ; the  little  Ascension  by  Nicolo  Semite- 
colo,  low  down,  on  the  right  of  the  vicar’s  picture  in  Number 
16.  For  that  Ascension  is  painted  in  real  belief  that  the  As- 
cension did  take  place  ; and  its  sincerity  ought  to  be  pleasant 
to  you,  after  Titian’s  pretence. 

Now,  returning  up  the  steps,  and  taking  the  corridor  to 
your  right,  opposite  the  porter’s  table,  enter  the  little  room 
through  the  first  door  on  your  right  ; and  therein,  just  on 
your  right  as  you  go  in,  is  Mantegna’s  St.  George,  No.  273  ; 
to  which  give  ten  minutes  quietly,  and  examine  it  with  a mag- 
nifying glass  of  considerable  power.  For  in  that  you  have  a 
perfect  tj^pe  of  the  Italian  methods  of  execution  corresponding 
to  the  finish  of  the  Dutch  painters  in  the  north  ; but  far  more 
intellectual  and  skilful.  You  cannot  see  more  wonderful  work 
in  minute  drawing  with  the  point  of  the  brush  ; the  virtue  of 
it  being  that,  not  only  every  touch  is  microscopically  minute, 
but  that,  in  this  minuteness,  every  touch  is  considered,  and 
every  touch  right.  It  is  to  be  regarded,  however,  only  as  a 
piece  of  workmanship.  It  is  wholly  without  sentiment,  though 
the  distant  landscape  becomes  affecting  through  its  detailed 
truth — the  winding  road  under  the  rocks,  and  the  towered 
city,  being  as  full  of  little  pretty  things  to  be  searched  out  as 
a natural  scene  would  be. 

And  I have  brought  you  first,  in  our  now  more  complete 
review,  to  this  picture,  because  it  shows  more  clearly  than  any 
other  through  what  tremendous  work  the  Italian  masters  ob- 
tained their  power. 

Without  the  inherited  strength  won  by  this  precision  of 
drawing  in  the  earlier  masters,  neither  Titian  nor  Tintoret 
could  have  existed. 


350  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Ketaru  into  tlie  corridor,  and  walk  along  it  to  the  end  with- 
out wasting  time  ; — there  is  a Bonifazio,  No.  326,  worth  a 
painter’s  while  to  stop  at,  but  in  general  mere  Dutch  rubbish. 
Walk  straight  on,  and  go  in  at  the  last  door  on  the  left,  with- 
in which  you  will  find 

456,  Cima  da  Conegliano.  An  entirely  sincere  and  noble 
picture  of  the  central  epoch.  Not  supreme  in  any  artistic 
quality,  but  good  and  praiseworthy  in  all  ; and,  as  a concep- 
tion of  its  subject,  the  most  beautiful  you  will  find  in  Venice. 
Grudge  no  time  upon  it  ; but  look  at  nothing  else  here  ; re- 
turn into  the  corridor,  and  proceed  by  it  into  the  great  room. 

Opposite  you  is  Titian’s  great  “ Presentation  of  the  Virgin,” 
interesting  to  artists,  and  an  unusually  large  specimen  of 
Titian’s  rough  work.  To  me,  simply  the  most  stupid  and  un- 
interesting picture  ever  painted  by  him  : if  you  can  find  any- 
thing to  enjoy  in  it,  you  are  very  welcome.  I have  nothing 
more  to  say  of  it,  except  that  the  color  of  the  landscape  is  as 
false  as  a piece  of  common  blue  tapestry,  and  that  the  “ cele- 
brated ” old  woman  with  her  basket  of  eggs  is  as  dismally 
ugly  and  vulgar  a filling  of  spare  corner  as  was  ever  daubed 
on  a side-scene  in  a hurry  at  Drury  Lane. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room,  543,  is  another  wide  waste 
of  canvas;  miserable  example  of  the  w^ork  subsequent  to  Paul 
Veronese  ; doubly  and  trebly  mischievous  in  caricaturing  and 
defiling  all  that  in  the  master  himself  is  noble  : to  look  long 
at  such  a thing  is  enough  to  make  the  truest  lovers  of  Vene- 
tian art  ashamed  of  Venice,  and  of  themselves.  It  ought  to 
be  taken  down  and  burned. 

Turn  your  back  to  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ; and  make 
up  your  mind  for  a long  stand  ; for  opposite  you,  so  standing, 
is  a Veronese  indeed,  of  the  most  instructive  and  noble  kind 
(489)  ; and  beneath  it,  the  best  picture  in  the  Academy  of 
Venice,  Carpaccio’s  “ Presentation  ” (488). 

Of  the  Veronese,  I will  say  nothing  but  that  the  main  in- 
structiveness of  it  is  in  the  exhibition  of  his  acquired  and  in- 
evitable faults  (the  infection  of  his  sera),  wuth  his  own  quiet- 
est and  best  virtues.  It  is  an  artist’s  picture,  and  even  only 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  351 


to  be  rightly  felt  by  very  good  artists  ; the  aerial  perspectives 
■ in  it  being  extremely  subtle,  and  rare,  to  equal  degree,  in  the 
painter’s  work.  To  the  general  spectator,  I will  only  observe 
that  he  has  free  leave  to  consider  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  exe- 
crable ; but  that  I hope,  if  he  has  a good  opera-glass,  he  will 
find  something  to  please  him  in  the  little  rose-bush  in  the 
glass  vase  on  the  balustrade.  I would  myself  give  all  the 
bushes — not  to  say  all  the  trees — and  all  the  seas,  of  Claude 
and  Poussin,  in  one  bunch  and  one  deluge — for  this  little  rose- 
bush and  its  bottle. 

488.  “The  Presentation  in  the  Temple.”  Signed  “Victor 
i Carpaccio,  1510.”  From  the  Church  of  St.  Job. 

You  have  no  similar  leave,  however,  good  general  spectator, 
( to  find  fault  with  anything  here  ! You  may  measure  yourself, 
j outside  and  in — your  religion,  your  taste,  your  knowledge  of 
art,  your  knowledge  of  men  and  things — by  the  quantity  of 
6 admiration  which  honestl}’’,  after  due  time  given,  you  can  feel 
c for  this  picture. 

You  are  not  required  to  think  the  Madonna  pretty,  or  to 
9 receive  the  same  religious  delight  from  the  concej^tion  of  the 
' scene,  which  you  would  rightly  receive  from  Angelico,  Filipj:>o 
I Lippi,  or  Perugino.  This  is  essentially  Venetian — prosaic, 
I matter  of  fact — retaining  its  supreme  common-sense  through 
I all  enthusiasm. 

Nor  are  you  required  to  think  this  a first-rate  work  in  Vene- 
i tian  color.  This  is  the  best  picture  in  the  Academy  precisely 
I'  because  it  is  not  the  best  piece  of  color  there  ; because  the 
great  master  has  subdued  his  own  main  passion,  and  restrained 
I'  his  color-faculty,  though  the  best  in  Venice,  that  you  might 
s 'not  say  the  moment  you  came  before  the  picture,  as  you  do  of 

I the  Paris  Bourdone  (492),  “ What  a piece  of  color  ! ” 

To  Paris,  the  Duke,  the  Senate,  and  the  Miracle  are  all 
" merely  vehicles  for  flashes  of  scarlet  and  gold  on  marble  and 
i ' silk  ; but  Carpaccio,  in  this  picture  of  the  Presentation,  does 

II  not  want  you  to  think  of  his  color,  but  of  7jour  Christ. 

To  whom  the  Madonna  also  is  subjected^ — to  whom  all  is 
'I  subjected ; you  will  not  find  such  another  Infant  Christ  in 

I 


352  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURED  IN 


Venice.  (But  always  look  carefully  at  Paul  Veronese’s,  for  it 
is  one  of  the  most  singular  points  in  the  character  of  this 
usually  decorative  and  inexpressive  painter,  that  his  Infant 
Christs  are  always  beautiful.) 

For  the  rest,  I am  not  going  to  praise  Carpaccio’s  work. 
Give  time  to  it ; and  if  you  don’t  delight  in  it,  the  essential 
faculty  of  enjoying  good  art  is  wanting  in  you,  and  I can’t 
give  it  to  you  by  ten  minutes’  talk  ; but  if  you  begin  really  to 
feel  the  picture,  observe  that  its  supreme  merit  is  in  the  ex- 
actly just  balance  of  all  virtue — detail  perfect,  yet  inconspic- 
uous ; composition  intricate  and  severe,  but  concealed  under 
apparent  simplicity  ; and  painter’s  faculty  of  the  supremest, 
used  nevertheless  with  entire  subjection  of  it  to  intellectual 
purpose.  Titian,  compared  to  Carpaccio,  paints  as  a circus- 
rider  rides — there  is  nothing  to  be  thought  of  in  him  but  his 
riding.  But  Carpaccio  paints  as  a good  knight  rides  ; his  rid- 
ing is  the  least  of  him  ; and  to  himself — unconscious  in  its 
ease. 

When  you  have  seen  all  you  can  of  the  picture  as  a whole, 
go  near,  and  make  out  the  little  pictures  on  the  edge  of  St. 
Simeon’s  robe  ; four  quite  lovely  ones  ; the  lowest  admitting, 
to  make  the  whole  perfect,  delightful  grotesque  of  fairy  an- 
gels within  a heavenly  castle  wall,  thrusting  down  a troop  of 
supine  devils  to  the  deep.  The  other  three,  more  beautiful 
ill  their  mystery  of  shade  ; but  I have  not  made  them  out  yet. 
There  is  one  solemn  piece  of  charge  to  a spirit  folding  its  arms 
ill  obedience  ; and  I think  the  others  must  be  myths  cf  crea- 
tion, but  can’t  tell  yet,  and  must  now  go  on  quickly  to  note 
merely  the  pictures  you  should  look  at,  reserving  talk  of  them 
for  a second  number  of  this  Guide. 

483,  500,  524,  containing  all  you  need  study  in  Bonifazio. 
In  500,  he  is  natural  and  does  his  best ; in  483,  he  pretends  to 
religion,  which  he  has  not ; in  524,  to  art,  which  he  has  not. 
The  last  is  a monstrous  example  of  the  apathy  with  which  tlie 
later  Italian  artists,  led  by  Kaphael,  used  this  horrible  subject 
to  exhibit  their  ingenuity  in  anatomical  posture,  and  excite 
the  feeble  interest  of  vulgar  spectators. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  353 

503.  Quiet  Tintoret ; very  noble  in  senators,  poor  in  Ma- 
donna. 

519.  Quiet  Paul  Veronese  ; very  noble  in  St.  Jerome’s  robe 
and  Lion,  and  in  little  St.  John’s  back.  Not  particularly  so 
in  anybody’s  front,  but  a first-rate  picture  in  the  picture  way. 

507.  Dashing  Tintoret ; fearfully  repainted,  but  grand  yet 
; in  the  lighter  figures  of  background. 

496-502.  Dashing  Paul  Veronese — splendid  4n  art ; in  con- 
e ception  of  Evangelists — all  that  Venice  wanted  of  them,  at 
u that  day.  You  must  always,  however,  judge  her  as  you  would 
a sailor— what  would  be  ridiculous  or  bombastic  in  others  has 

1 often  some  honesty  in  it  with  her.  Think  of  these  Evangelists 

2 as  a kind  of  figure-heads  of  ships. 

Enter  now  the  great  room  with  the  Veronese  at  the  end  of 
^ it,  for  which  the  painter  (quite  rightly)  was  summoned  before 
d the  Inquisition  of  State  : you  will  find  his  examination,  trans- 
l lated  by  a friend  to  whom  I owe  much  in  my  old  Venetian 
i]  days,  in  the  Appendix  to  my  second  Guide  ; but  you  must  not 
i stop  now  at  this  picture,  if  you  are  in  a hurry,  for  you  can  see 
i the  like  of  it,  and  better,  in  Paris  ; but  you  can  see  nothing  in 
I all  the  world,  out  of  Venice,  like  certain  other  pictures  in  this 

3 room. 

Glancing  round  it,  you  see  it  may  be  generally  described  as 
;;  full  of  pictures  of  street  architecture,  with  various  more  or  less 
fl  interesting  transactions  going  on  in  the  streets.  Large  Cnna- 
t leitos,  in  fact  ; only  with  the  figures  a little  more  interesting 
1 than  Canaletto’s  figures  ; and  the  buildings,  on  the  whole,  red 
1 and  white  or  brown  and  white,  instead  of,  as  with  Canaletto, 
t(  black  and  white.  And  on  consideration,  and  observation,  you 
i will  perceive,  if  you  have  any  perception  of  color,  that  Vene- 
:i  tian  buildings,  and  most  others,  being  really  red  and  white  or 
n brown  and  white,  not  black  and  white,  this  is  really  the  right 
Oj  manner  of  painting  them,  and  these  are  true  and  sufficient  rep- 
>1  resentations  of  streets,  of  landscapes,  and  of  interiors  of  houses, 
with  the  people,  as  I said,  either  in  St.  Mark’s  Place,  555,  or 
! 23 


354  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


at  Grand  Cairo,  540,  or  before  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  at 
Eome,  546,  or  by  the  old  Kialto  here,  564,  being  themselves 
also  more  or  less  interesting,  if  you  will  observe  them,  first  in 
their  dresses,  which  are  very  curious  and  pretty,  and  after- 
ward in  many  other  particulars,  of  which  for  the  present  I 
must  leave  you  to  make  out  what  you  can  ; for  of  the  pictures 
by  Carpaccio  in  this  room  I must  write  an  entirely  separate 
account  (begun  already  for  one  of  them  only,  the  Dream  of 
St.  Ursula,  533),^  and  of  the  Gentile  Bellini  you  can  only  know 
the  value  after  good  study  of  St.  Mark’s  itself.  Observe,  how- 
ever, at  least  in  this,  and  in  548  and  564,  the  perfectly  true 
representation  of  what  the  Architecture  of  Venice  was  in  her- 
glorious  time  ; trim,  dainty — red  and  white  like  the  blossom 
of  a carnation — touched  with  gold  like  a peacock’s  plumes, 
and  frescoed,  even  to  its  chimney-pots,  with  fairest  arabesque 
— its  inhabitants,  and  it  together,  one  harmony  of  work  and 
life — all  of  a piece,  you  see  them,  in  the  wonderful  palace- 
perspective  on  the  left  in  548,  with  eveiybody  looking  out  of 
their  windows.  And  in  this  picture  of  St.  Mark’s,  painted  by 
John  Bellini’s  good  brother,  true  as  he  could,  hue  for  hue,  and 
ray  for  ray,  you  see  that  all  the  tossing  of  its  now  white  marble 
foliage  against  the  sky,  which  in  my  old  book  on  Venice  I com- 
pared to  the  tossed  spray  of  sea  waves  (believing  then,  as  I 
do  still,  that  the  Venetians  in  their  living  and  breathing  daj^s 
of  art  were  always  influenced  in  their  choice  of  guiding  lines 
of  sculpture  by  their  sense  of  the  action  of  wind  or  sea),  were 
not,  at  all  events,  meant  to  be  like  sea  foam  white  in  anger, 
but  like  light  spray  in  morning  sunshine.  They  were  all  over- 
laid with  gold. 

Not  yet  in  vicious  luxury.  Those  porches  of  St.  Mark’s,  so 
please  you,  English  friends,  were  not  thus  gilt  for  the  wedding 
of  Miss  Kilmansegg,  nor  are  those  pictures  on  the  vaults  ad- 
vertisements, like  yours  in  your  railway  stations ; all  the  arts 


* Of  which,  with  her  legend,  if  you  care  to  hear  more,  you  will  find 
more  in  the  three  numbers  of  “ Fors  Clavigera  ” now  purchaseable  of  my 
agent  in  Venice  (Mr.  Bunney,  Fondamenta  San  Biagio,  2143),  from 
whom  all  my  recent  publications  on  Venice  may  be  also  procured. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OP  FINE  ARTS.  nb5 


< of  England  bent  on  recommending  3^011  cheap  bathing  ma- 
i chines  and  j>ainless  pills.  Here  are  purer  baths  and  medicines 
ij  told  of  ; here  have  been  more  ingenious  engineers.  From  the 
Sinai  desert,  from  the  Sion  rock,  from  the  defiles  of  Lebanon, 
j met  here  the  ghosts  of  ancient  builders  to  oversee  the  v/ork, 

- of  dead  nations,  to  inspire  it  — Bezaleel  and  the  maids  of 

1 Israel  who  gave  him  their  jewels  ; Hiram  and  his  forgers  in 

/ the  vale  of  Siddirn,  his  woodmen  of  the  S3uian  forests  ; David 

i the  lord  of  war,  and  his  Son  the  Lord  of  Peace,  and  the  mul- 

t titudes  that  kept  holy  day  when  the  cloud  filled  the  house  they 

had  built  for  the  Lord  of  All— -these  in  their  myriads  stood 
by,  to  watch,  to  guide  ; it  might  have  been,  had  Venice  willed, 
to  bless. 

Literally  so,  mind  3"ou.  The  wreathen  work  of  the  lily  cap- 
itals and  their  archivolts,  the  glass  that  keeps  unfaded  their 
color— the  design  of  that  color  itself,  and  the  stories  that  are 
told  in  the  glow  of  it — all  these  were  brought  by  the  Jew  or  the 
Tyrian,  bringing  also  the  treasures  of  Persia  and  Egypt ; and 
with  these,  laboring  beside  them  as  one  brought  up  with  them, 
stood  the  Athena  of  Corinth,  and  the  Sophia  of  Byzantium. 

Not  in  vicious  luxury  these,  yet — though  in  Tyrian  splendor 
glows  St.  Mark’s  : nor  those  quiet  and  trim  little  houses  on 
the  right,  joining  the  Campanile.  You  are  standing  (the 
work  is  so  completely  done  that  you  may  soon  fanc}^  yourself 
so)  in  old  St.  Mark’s  Place,  at  the  far  end  of  it,  before  it  was 
enlarged  ; you  may  find  the  stone  marking  the  whole  length 
of  it  in  the  pavement,  just  opposite  the  easternmost  door  of 
the  Cafe  Florian.  And  there  were  none  of  those  pompous 
loggie  then,  where  you  walk  up  and  down  before  the  cafe, 
but  these  trim,  dainty,  happily  inhabited  houses,  mostly  in 
white  marble  and  gold,  with  disks  of  porphyry  ; and  look 
at  the  procession  coming  toward  3mu  underneath  them — 
what  a bed  of  moving  flowers  it  is ! Not  Birnam  Wood  com- 
ing, gloonn^  and  terrible,  but  a very  bloom  and  garland  of 
good  and  knightl}’’  manhood — its  Doge  walking  in  the  midst 
of  it — simple,  valiant,  actual,  beneficent,  magnificent  king.  Do 
you  see  better  sights  than  this  in  St.  Mark’s  Place  now,  in 
your  days  of  progress? 


356  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Now,  just  to  get  some  little  notion  liow  tlie  figures  are 
“put  in”  by  these  scrupulous  old  formalists,  take  the  pains 
to  look  closely  at  the  first  you  come  upon  of  the  procession 
oil  the  extreme  left — the  three  musicians,  namely,  with  the 
harp,  violin,  and  lute.  Look  at  them  as  portraits  only  ; you 
will  not  find  more  interesting  ones  in  all  the  rooms.  And 
then  you  will  do  well  to  consider  the  picture  as  a reality  for 
a little  while,  and  so  leave  the  Academy  with  a vision  of  liv- 
ing Venice  in  your  heart.  We  will  look  at  no  more  painting 
to-day. 


PART  n. 

If  you  have  looked  with  care  at  the  three  musicians,  or  any 
other  of  the  principal  fignires,  in  the  great  town  or  landscape 
views  in  this  principal  room,  you  will  be  ready  now  with  better 
patience  to  trace  the  order  of  their  subjects,  and  such  character 
or  story  as  their  treatment  may  develop.  I can  only  help 
jmu,  however,  with  Carpaccio’s,  for  I have  not  been  able  to 
examine,  or  much  think  of,  Mansueti’s,  recognizing,  never- 
theless, much  that  is  delightful  in  them. 

By  Carpaccio,  then,  in  this  room,"^  there  are  in  all  eleven 
important  pictures,  eight  from  the  legend  of  St.  Ursula,  and 
three  of  distinct  subjects.  Glance  first  at  the  series  of  St. 
Ursula  subjects,  in  this  order  : 

I.  — 539.  Maurus  the  King  of  Brittany  receives  the  English 
ambassadors : and  has  talk  with  his  daughter  touching  their 
embassy. 

II.  — *533.  St.  Ursula’s  Dream. 

III.  — 537.  King  Maurus  dismisses  the  English  ambassa- 
dors with  favorable  answer  from  his  daughter.  (This  is  the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  painting  in  the  rooms.) 


* Or  at  least  in  the  Academy  : the  arrangement  may  perhaps  he  altered 
before  this  Guide  can  be  published  ; at  all  events  we  must  not  count 
on  it. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS,  357 


IV.  — 549.  The  Kiug  of  England  receives  the  Princess’s 
favorable  answer. 

V.  — 542.  The  Prince  of  England  sets  sail  for  Brittany — 
there  receives  his  bride,  and  embarks  with  her  on  pilgrimage. 

VI.  — 546.  The  Prince  of  England  and  his  bride,  voyaging 
on  pilgrimage  with  the  eleven  thousand  maidens,  arrive  at 
Rome,  and  are  received  by  the  Pope,  who,  “ with  certain  Car- 
dinals,” joins  their  pilgrimage.  (The  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
series,  next  to  the  Bream.) 

VII.  — 544.  The  Prince,  with  his  bride,  and  the  Pope  with 
his  Cardinals,  and  the  eleven  thousand  maids,  arrive  in  the 
laud  of  the  Huns,  and  receive  martyrdom  there.  In  the 
second  part  of  the  picture  is  the  funeral  procession  of  »St. 
Ursula. 

VIII. — St.  Ursula,  with  her  maidens,  and  the  pilgrim  Pope, 
and  certain  Cardinals,  in  glory  of  Paradise.  I have  always 
forgotten  to  look  for  the  poor  bridegroom  in  this  picture,  and 
on  looking,  am  by  no  means  sure  of  him.  But  I suppose  it  is 
he  who  holds  St.  Ursula’s  standard.  The  architeclure  and 
landscape  are  unsurpassably  tine  ; the  rest  much  imperfect  ; 
but  containing  nobleness  only  to  be  learned  by  long  dwelling 
on  it. 

.In  this  series,  I have  omitted- one  picture,  544,  which  is  of 
scarcely  any  interest— except  in  its  curious  faults  and  unwor- 
thiness. At  all  events,  do  not  at  present  look  at  it,  or  think 
of  it  ; but  let  us  examine  all  the  rest  without  hurry. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  find  this  curious  fact,  intensely 
characteristic  of  the  fifteenth  as  opposed  to  the  nineteenth 
century — that  the  figures  are  true  and  natural,  but  the  land- 
scape false  and  unnatural,  being  by  such  fallacy  made  entirely 
subordinate  to  the  figures.  I have  never  approved  of,  and 
only  a little  understand,  this  state  of  things  The  painter  is 
never  interested  in  the  ground,  but  only  in  the  creatures  tliat 
tread  on  it.  A castle  tower  is  left  a mere  brown  bit  of  canvas, 
and  all  his  coloring  kept  for  the  trumpeters  on  the  top  of  it. 
The  fields  are  obscurely  green  ; the  sky  imperfectly  blue  ; and 
the  mountains  could  not  possibly  stand  on  the  very  small 
foundations  they  are  furnished  with. 


358  GUIDE  TO  THE  PBINGIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Here  is  a Religion  of  Humanity,  and  nothing  else — to  pur- 
pose ! Nothing  in  the  universe  thought  worth  a look,  unless 
it  is  in  service  or  foil  to  some  two-legged  creature  showing 
itself  off  to  the  best  advantage.  If  a flower  is  in  a girl’s  hair 
it  ,shall  be  painted  properly  ; but  in  the  fields,  shall  be  only  a 
spot ; if  a striped  pattern  is  on  a boy’s  jacket,  we  paint  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  it,  and  drop  not  a stitch  ; but  the  striped 
X^atterns  of  vineyard  or  furrow  in  field,  the  enamelled  mossy 
mantles  of  the  rocks,  the  barred  heraldry  of  the  shield  of  the 
sky — perhaps  insects  and  birds  may  take  pleasure  in  them, 
not 

To  his  own  native  lagunes  and  sea,  the  painter  is  yet  less 
sensitive.  His  absurd  rocks,  and  dotty  black  hedges  round 
bitumen-colored  fields  (542),  are  yet  painted  with  some 
grotesque  humor,  some  modest  and  unworldly  beauty  ; and 
sustain  or  engird  their  castellated  quaintnesses  in  a manner 
X^leasing  to  the  X)re-Rax3haelite  mind.  But  the  sea — waveless 
as  a deal  board — and  in  that  tranquillity,  for  the  most  part  re- 
flecting nothing  at  its  edge — literally,  such  a sea  justifies  that^ 
uncourteous  saying  of  earlier  Venice  of  her  Doge’s  bride — 
“ Mare  sub  pede  pono.”* 

Of  all  these  deficiencies,  characteristic  not  of  this  master 
only,  but  of  his  age,  you  will  find  various  analysis  in  the  third 
volume  of  “Modern  Painters,”  in  the  chapter  on  mediaeval 
landscax^e  ; with  begun  examination  of  the  causes  which  led 
gradually  to  more  accurate  observance  of  natural  phenomena, 
until,  by  Turner,  the  method  of  Carpaccio’s  mind  is  iDrecisely 
reversed,  and  tlie  Nature  in  the  background  becomes  princi- 
pal ; the  figures  in  the  foreground,  its  foil.  I have  a good 
deal  more,  howevei*,  to  say  on  this  subject  now — so  much 
more,  indeed,  that  in  this  little  Guide  there  is  no  proper  room 
for  any  of  it,  except  the  simple  conclusion  that  both  the 

* On  the  scroll  in  the  hand  of  the  throned  Venice  on  the  Piazzetta  side 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  entire  inscription  is, 

“ Fortis,  jnsta,  trono  fnrias,  mare  sub  pede,  pono.” 

“ Strong,  and  just,  I pnt  the  furies  beneath  my  throne,  and  the  sea 
beneath  my  foot.” 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  PINE  ARTS, 


359 


painters  are  wrong  in  whatever  they  either  definitely  misrep- 
resent,  or  enfeeble  by  inharmonious  deficiency. 

In  the  next  place,  I want  you  to  notice  Carpaccio’s  fancy  in 
what  he  does  represent  very  beautifully — the  architecture, 
real  and  ideal,  of  his  day. 

His  fancy,  I say  ; or  phantasy  ; the  notion  he  has  of  what 
architecture  should  be  ; of  which,  without  doubt,  you  see  his 
clearest  expression  in  the  Paradise,  and  in  the  palace  of  the 
most  Christian  King,  St.  Ursula’s  father. 

And  here  I must  ask  you  to  remember,  or  learn  if  you  do 
not  know,  the  general  course  of  transition  in  the  architecture 
of  Venice — namely,  that  there  are  three  epochs  of  good  build- 
ing in  Venice  ; the  first  lasting  to  1300,  Byzantine,  in  the  stylo 
of  St.  Mark’s  ; the  second,  1300  to  1480,  Gothic,  in  the  style 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; and  the  third,  1480  to  1520,  in  a manner 
which  architects  have  yet  given  no  entirely  accepted  name  to, 
but  which,  from  the  name  of  its  greatest  designer.  Brother 
Giocondo,  of  Verona,*  I mean,  myself,  henceforward  to  call 
Giocondine.” 

Now,  the  dates  on  these  pictures  of  Carpaccio’s  run  from 
1480  to  1485,  so  that  5^11  see  he  was  painting  in  the  youthful 
gush,  as  it  were,  and  fullest  impetus  of  Giocondine  architec- 
ture, which  all  Venice,  and  chiefly  Carpaccio,  in  the  joy  of  art, 
thought  was  reall}''  at  last  the  architecture  divinely  designed, 
and  arrived  at  by  steady  progress  of  taste,  from  the  Creation 
to  1480,  and  then  the  ne  plus  ultra,  and  real  Babel-style  with- 
out bewilderment — its  top  truly  reaching  to  heaven — style 
which  was  never  thenceforth  to  be  bettered  by  human  thought 
or  skill.  Of  which  Giocondine  manner,  I really  think  you  had 
better  at  once  see  a substantially  existent  piece.  It  will  not 
take  long — say  an  hour,  with  lunch  ; and  the  good  door-keeper 
will  let  you  come  in  again  without  paying. f 

So  (always  supposing  the  day  fine),  go  down  to  your  boat, 

* Called  “ tlie  second  Founder  of  Venice,”  for  liis  engineering  work 
on  the  Brentii.  Ilis  architecture  is  chiefly  at  Verona;  the  stylo  being 
adopted  and  enriched  at  Venice  by  the  Lombardi, 

f If  you  have  already  seen  the  school  of  St.  John,  or  do  not  like  the 
interruption,  continue  at  page  365, 


360  GUIDE  TO  THE  PBINCIPAL  PICTURES  IH 


and  order  yourself  to  be  taken  to  the  church  of  the  Frari. 
Landing-  just  beyond  it,  your  gondoliers  will  show  you  the 
way,  up  the  calle  beside  it,  to  the  desolate  little  courtyard  of 
the  School  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist.  It  might  be  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  scenes  among  the  cities  of  Italy,  if  only  the 
good  Catholics  of  Venice  would  employ  so  much  of  their 
yearly  alms  in  the  honor  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist  as  to  main- 
tain any  old  gondolier,  past  rowing,  in  this  courtyard  by  way 
of  a Patinos,  on  condition  that  he  should  suffer  no  wildly 
neglected  children  to  throw  stones  at  the  sculptures,  nor 
grown-up  creatures  to  defile  them  ; but  with  occasional  ablu- 
tion by  sprinkling  from  garden  water-engine,  suffer  the  weeds 
of  Venice  to  inhabit  among  the  marbles  where  they  listed. 

How  beautiful  the  place  might  be,  I need  not  tell  jmn. 
Beautiful  it  is,  even  in  its  squalid  misery ; but  too  probably, 
some  modern  designer  of  railroad  stations  will  do  it  up  with 
new  gilding  and  scrapings  of  its  gray  stone.  The  gods  for- 
bid ; understand,  at  all  events,  that  if  this  happens  to  it,  you 
are  no  moi-e  to  think  of  it  as  an  example  of  Giocondine  art. 
But,  as  long  as  it  is  let  alone  there,  in  the  shafts  and  capitals 
you  will  see,  on  the  whole,  the  most  characteristic  example  in 
Venice  of  the  architecture  that  Carpaccio,  Cima,  and  John 
Bellini  loved. 

As  a rule,  observe,  square-piered,  not  round-pillared  ; the 
square  piers  either  sculptured  all  up  with  floral  tracery,  or, 
if  plain,  decorated  half-way  up,  by  a round  panel  of  dark-col- 
ored marble  or  else  a bas-relief,  usually  a classic  profile  * the 
capitals,  of  light  leafage,  playing  or  springing  into  joyful  spi- 
rals at  the  angles  ; the  mouldings  and  cornices  on  the  whole 
very  flat  or  square  cut — no  solid  round  mouldings  anywhere, 
but  all  precise,  rectangular,  and  shallow.  The  windows  and 
doors  either  square-headed  or  round — never  pointed  ; but,  if 
square-headed,  having  often  a Greek  gable  or  pediment  above, 
as  here  on  the  outer  wall  ; and,  if  round-headed,  often  com- 
posed of  two  semicircles  side  by  side,  with  a circle  between  ; * 


* In  returning  to  your  boat,  just  walk  round  to  the  back  of  the  church 
of  the  Frari,  and  look  at  the  windows  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  which 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


361 


the  wall  decoration  being  either  of  round  inlaid  marbles, 
among  floral  sculpture,  or  of  fresco.  Little  to  be  conceived 
from  words ; but  if  you  will  look  well  inside  and  outside  of 
the  cortile  of  the  Evangelist,  you  will  come  away  with  a very 
definite  primary  notion  of  Giocondine  work. 

Then  back,  with  straight  speed  to  the  Academy  ; and  before 
landing  there,  since  j^ou  can  see  the  little  square  in  front  of 
it,  from  your  boat,  read  on. 

The  little  square  has  its  name  written  up  at  the  corner,  you 
see — “Field  of  Charity,”  or  rather  of  the  Charity,  meaning 
the  Madonna  of  Charity,  and  church  dedicated  to  her.  Of 
which  you  see  the  mere  walls,  variously  defaced,  remaining 
yet  in  their  original  form,  traces  of  the  great  circular  window 
in  the  front  yet  left,  also  of  the  pointed  windows  at  the  sides 
— filled  up,  many  a year  ago,  and  the  square  holes  below  cut 
for  modern  convenience  ; there  being  no  space  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Italy  to  build  new  square-holed  houses  on,  the 
Church  of  Charity  must  be  used  for  makeshift. 

Have  you  charity  of  imagination  enough  to  cover  this  little 
field  with  fresh  grass — to  tear  down  the  iron  bridge  which 
some  accursed  Englishman,  I suppose,  greed}"  for  filthy  job, 
persuaded  the  poor  Venetians  to  spoil  their  Grand  Canal  with, 
at  its  noblest  bend- — and  to  fill  the  pointed  lateral  windows 
with  light  tracery  of  quatrefoiled  stone  ? So  stood,  so  bloomed, 
the  church  and  its  field,  in  early  fourteenth  century — dismal 
time  ! the  church  in  its  fresh  beauty  then,  built  toward  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  on  the  site  of  a much  more 
ancient  one,  first  built  of  wood  ; and,  in  1119,  of  stone  ; but 
still  very  small,  its  attached  monastery  receiving  Alexander 
III.  in  1177  ; here  on  the  little  flowery  field  landed  the  Pon- 
tiff Exile,  whose  foot  w’as  to  tread  so  soon  on  the  Lion  and 
the  Adder. 

And  some  hundred  years  later,  putting  away,  one  finds  not 


will  fix  the  form  in  your  mind.  It  is  an  entirely  bad  one  ; but  took  the 
fancy  of  men,  for  a time,  and  of  strong  ones,  too.  But  don’t  stop  long 
just  now  to  look  at  this  later  building  ; keep  the  St.  John’s  cortile  for 
jour  type  of  Giocondine  work,  pure. 


362  GUIDE  TO  THE  PBINGIPAL  PIGTUBE8  IN 


why,  her  little  Byzantine  church,  more  gravely  meditative 
Venice,  visited  much  by  Dominican  and  Franciscan  friars,  and 
more  or  less  in  cowled  temper  herself,  built  this  graver  and 
simpler  pile  ; which,  if  any  of  my  readers  care  for  either 
Turner  or  me,  they  should  look  at  with  some  moments’  pause  ; 
for  I have  given  Turner’s  lovely  sketch  of  it  to  Oxford,  painted 
as  he  saw"  it  fifty  years  ago,  with  bright  golden  sails  grouped 
in  front  of  it  where  now  is  the  ghastly  iron  bridge.* 

Most  probably  (I  cannot  yet  find  any  direct  document  of 
it),  the  real  occasion  of  the  building  of  the  church  whose  wallj 
yet  stand,  was  the  founding  of  the  Confraternita  di  S.  Maria 
della  Carita,  on  St.  Leonard’s  day,  6th  November,  1260, f 
which  brotherhood,  in  1310,  fought  side  by  side  with  the  school 
of  the  Painters  in  St.  Luke’s  field,  against  one  body  of  the 
conspirators  for  Bajamoute,  and  drove  them  back,  achieving 
the  right  thenceforward  of  planting  their  purple  standard 
there,  in  St.  Luke’s  field,  with  their  stemma  (all  this  bears  on 
Carpaccio’s  pictures  presently,  so  have  patience  yet  a minute 
or  two)  ; and  so  increasing  in  number  and  influence,  bought  in 
1344,  from  the  Monks  of  the  Church  of  Charity,  the  ground 
on  which  you  are  presently  going  to  see  pictures  ; and  built 
on  it  their  cloister,  dedicated  also  to  St.  Mary  of  Charity  ; and 
over  the  gate  of  it,  by  which  you  are  going  to  enter,  put  St. 
Mary  of  Charitj",  as  they  best  could  get  her  carved,  next  year, 
1345  ; and  so  you  have  her  there,  with  cowled  members  of  the 
confraternity  kneeling  to  her  ; happy  angels  fluttering  about 
her ; the  dark  blue  of  her  eyes  not  j"et  utterly  faded  from 
them.  BluC'Cyed  as  Athena  she — the  Greek  tradition  yet 
prevailing  to  that  extent — a perfect  type,  the  whole  piece,  of 


* “Very  convenient  for  tlie  people,”  say  you,  modern  man  of  busi- 
ness. Yes;  very  convenient  to  them  also  to  pay  two  centesimi  every 
time  they  cross — six  for  three  persons,  into  the  pockets  of  that  English 
engineer  ; instead  of  five  for  three  persons,  to  one  of  their  own  boat- 
men, who  now  take  to  begging,  drinking,  and  bellowing  for  the 
wretched  hordes  at  the  tables  d’hote,  whose  ears  have  been  rent  by 
railroad  whistles  till  they  don’t  know  a howl  from  a song — instead  of 
ferrying. 

f Archivio  Veneto.  (Venezia,  1876.)  Tom.  XII.  , Parte  i.,  p.  112. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  PINE  ARTS.  36t] 

purest  central  fourteenth-century  Gothic  thought  and  work 
untouched,  and  iudubitable  of  date,  being  inscribed  below  its 
bracket  cornice, 

MCCCXLV.  I LO  TEMPO  DE  MIS. 

MAECHO  ZULIAN  EO  FATO  STO  LAVOEIER. 

To  wit — “ 1345,  in  the  time”  (of  the  Guardianship)  of 
Messer  Mark  Julian,  was  made  this  labored  thing.” 

And  all  seemed  to  bid  fair  for  Venice  and  her  sacred  schools  • 
Heaven  surely  pleased  with  these  her  endeavors,  and  labored 
things. 

Yes,  wdth  these,  and  such  other,  I doubt  not.  But  other 
things,  it  seems,  had  been  done  in  Venice,  with  which  Heaven 
w^as  not  pleased  ; assuming  always  that  there  is  a Heaven,  for 
otherwise — what  followed  was  of  course  only  process  of  Dar- 
winian development.  But  this  ivas  what  foltowed.  That 
Madonna,  with  her  haj3py  angels  and  humble  worshippers,  was 
carved  as  you  see  her  over  the  Scuola  cloister  door — in  1345. 
And  “ on  the  25th  of  January,  1347,*  on  the  day,  to  wit,  of 
the  conversion  of  St.  Paul,  about  the  hour  of  vespers,  there 
came  a great  earthquake  in  Venice,  and  as  it  were  in  all  the 
wmrld  ; and  fell  many  tops  of  bell-towers,  and  houses,  and 
cliimneys,  and  the  church  of  St.  Basil  : and  there  was  so  great 
fear  that  all  the  people  thought  to  die.  And  the  earth  ceased 
not  to  tremble  for  about  forty  days  ; and  when  it  remained 
quiet,  there  came  a great  mortality,  and  the  people  died  of 
various  evil.  And  the  people  were  in  so  great  fear,  that  father 
W'Ould  not  go  to  visit  son,  nor  son  father.  And  this  death 
lasted  about  six  months  ; and  it  was  said  commonly  that  there 
died  tw'o  parts  out  of  three,  of  all  the  people  of  Venice.” 

These  words  you  may  read  (in  Venetian  dialect),  after  you 
have  entered  the  gate  beneath  the  Madonna  ; they  are  engraved 
under  the  Gothic  arch  on  your  right  hand  ; with  otber  like 
words,  telling  the  various  horror  of  that  Plague  ; and  how  the 
guardian  of  the  Scuola  died  by  it,  and  about  ten  of  his  officers 
with  him,  and  three  hundred  of  the  brethren. 


* 1348,  in  our  present  calendar. 


364  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Above  the  inscription,  two  angels  hold  the  symbol  of  the 
Scuola  ; carved  as  you  see,  conspicuously  also  on  the  outer 
sculptures  in  various  places  ; and  again  on  the  well  in  the 
midst  of  the  cloister.  The  first  sign  this,  therefore,  of  all 
chosen  by  the  greater  schools  of  Venice,  of  which,  as  aforesaid, 
“ The  first  was  that  of  St.  Mary  of  Charity,  which  school  has 
its  wax  candles  red,  in  sign  that  Charity  should  be  glowing  ; 
and  has  for  its  bearing  a yellow  ”(  meaning  golden  *)  “ cross, 
traversing  two  little  circles  also  yellow  ; with  red  and  green 
quartering  the  parts  which  the  cross  describes — those  who  in- 
stituted such  sign  desiring  to  show  thereby  the  union  that 
Charity  should  have  with  Faith  and  Hope.”f 

The  golden  “ anchored  ” cross  stands  for  Faith,  the  golden 
outer  circle  for  Charity,  the  golden  inner  for  Hope — all  on 
field  quartered  gules  and  vert,  the  colors  of  Charity  and 
Hope.  ^ 

Such  the  first  symbol  of  Venetian  Brotherhoods  J — in  read- 
ing which,  I delay  you,  that  you  may  be  better  prepared  to 
understand  the  symbolism  running  through  every  sign  and 
color  in  Venetian  art  at  this  time,  down  even  to  its  tinting  of 
wax  candles  ; art  wdiich  was  indeed  all  the  more  symbolic  for 
being  rude,  and  complicated  much  with  the  use  of  signals  and 
heraldries  at  sea,  too  distant  for  any  art  in  them  to  be  visible> 
but  serviceably  intelligible  in  meaning. 

How  far  the  great  Scuola  and  cloisters  of  the  Carita,  for 
monks  and  confraternity  together,  reached  from  the  gate  under 
which  you  are  pausing,  you  may  see  in  Durer’s  wood-cut  of 
the  year  1500  (Correr  Museum),  which  gives  the  apse  with 
attached  chapels  ; and  the  grand  double  cloister  reaching  back 
nearly  to  the  Giudecca  ; a water-wheel — as  I suppose — out- 


* Ex  Cruce  constat  aurea,  aeu  flava  ; ejus  speciei,  quam  artis  hujus- 
modi  Anctores  “ ancoratam  ’ vocant. 

f In  tabnlam  Graecam  insigni  sodalitio  S.  M.  Caritatis,  Venetiarum, 
ab  amplissimo  Cardinali  Bessarione  dono  datam,  Disserattio. — (St.  Mark’s 
library,  33331,  page  146.) 

X At  least  according  to  tbe  authority  above  quoted  ; as  far  as  I have 
consulted  the  original  documents  myself,  I find  the  school  of  St.  Theodore 
primal. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  365 


side,  on  the  (now  filled  up  and  paved)  canal,  moved  by  the 
tide,  for  molinary  work  in  the  kitchens.  Of  all  which  nothing- 
now  remains  but  these  pillars  and  beams,  between  you  and  the 
gallery  staircase  ; and  the  well  with  two  brothers  on  each  side 
holding  their  Stemma,  a fine  free-hand  piece  of  rough  living 
work.  You  will  not,  I think,  find  that  you  have  ill  spent  your 
hour  of  rest  when  you  now  return  into  the  Carpaccio  room, 
where  we  will  look  first,  please,  at  No.  lY.  (549),  in  which 
many  general  points  are  better  shown  than  in  the  rest. 

Here  is  the  great  King  of  ideal  England,  under  an  octagonal 
temple  of  audience  ; all  the  scene  being  meant  to  show  the 
conditions  of  a state  in  perfect  power  and  prosperity. 

A state,  therefore,  that  is  at  once  old  and  young  ; that  has 
had  a history  for  centuries  past,  and  will  have  one  for  cen- 
turies to  come. 

Ideal,  founded  mainly  on  the  Venice  of  his  own  day  ; 
mingled  a little  with  thoughts  of  great  Rome,  and  of  great 
antagonist  Genoa  : but,  in  all  spirit  and  hope,  the  Venice  of 
1480-1500  is  here  living  before  you.  And  now,  therefore, 
you  can  see  at  once  what  she  meant  by  a “ Campo,”  allowing 
for  the  conventional  manner  of  representing  grass,  which  of 
course  at  first  you  will  laugh  at ; but  which  is  by  no  means 
deserving  of  your  contempt.  Any  hack  draughtsman  of  Dal- 
ziel’s  can  sketch  for  j^ou,  or  any  member  of  the  Water-color  or 
Dudley  Societies  dab  for  you,  in  ten  minutes,  a field  of  hay 
that  you  would  fancy  you  could  movv%  and  make  cocks  of. 
But  this  green  ground  of  Carpaccio’s,  with  implanted  fiowers 
and  tufts  of  grass,  is  traditional  from  the  first  Greek-Christian 
mosaics,  and  is  an  entirely  systematic  ornamental  ground,  and 
to  be  understood  as  such,  primarily,  and  as  grass  only  sym- 
bolically. Careless  indeed,  more  than  is  usual  with  him — 
much  spoiled  and  repainted  also  ; but  quite  clear  enough  in 
expression  for  us  of  the  orderliness  and  freshness  of  a Venetian 
campo  in  the  great  times  ; garden  and  city  you  see  mingled 
inseparably,  the  wild  strawberry  growing  at  the  steps  of  the 
king’s  court  of  justice,  and  their  marble  sharp  and  bright  out 
of  the  turf.  Clean  everything,  and  pure — no  cigars  in  any- 
body’s poisoned  mouth — no  voiding  of  perpetual  excrement 


36C  GUIDE  TO  THE  PBINOIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


of  saliva  on  the  precious  marble  or  living  flowers.  Perfect 
peace  and  befittingness  of  behavior  in  all  men  and  creatures. 
Your  very  monkey  in  repose,  perfect  in  his  mediaeval  dress  ; 
the  Darwinian  theory  in  all  its  sacredness,  breadth,  divinity, 
and  sagacity — but  reposeful,  not  venturing  to  thrust  itself  into 
political  council.  Crowds  on  the  bridges  and  quays,  but  untu- 
multuous,  close  set  as  beds  of  flowers,  richly  decorative  in  their 
mass,  and  a beautiful  mosaic  of  men,  and  of  black,  red,  blue, 
and  golden  bonnets.  Euins,  indeed,  among  the  prosperity  ; 
but  glorious  ones — not  shells  of  abandoned  speculation,  but 
remnants  of  mighty  state  long  ago,  now  restored  to  nature’s 
peace  ; the  arches  of  the  first  bridge  the  city  had  built,  broken 
down  by  storm,  yet  what  was  left  of  them  spared  for  memory’s 
sake.  (So  stood  for  a little  while,  a few  years  ago,  the  broken 
Ponte-a-Mare  at  Pisa  ; so  at  Eome,  for  ages,  stood  the  Ponte 
Eotto,  till  the  engineers  and  modern  mob  got  at  it,  making 
what  was  in  my  youth  the  most  lovely  and  holy  scene  in  Eome, 
now  a place  where  a swineherd  could  not  stand  without  hold- 
ing his  nose,  and  which  no  woman  can  stop  at.) 

But  here,  the  old  arches  are  covered  with  sweet  weeds,  like 
native  rock,  and  (for  once  !)  reflected  a little  in  the  pure  water 
under  the  meadowy  hills.  Much  besides  of  noteworthy,  if 
you  are  jmurself  worthy  of  noting  it,  you  may  find  in  this 
lovely  distance.  But  the  picture,  it  may  be  complained,  seems 
for  the  most  part — distance,  architecture,  and  scattered,  crowd; 
while  of  foreground  objects,  we  have  principally  cloaks,  and 
very  curiously  thin  legs.*  Well,  yes— the  distance  is  indeed 
the  prettiest  part  of  this  picture  ; and  since,  in  modern  art  and 
drama,  we  have  been  accustomed,  for  anatomical  and  other 
reasons,  to  depend  on  nothing  else  but  legs,  I admit  the  supply 
of  legs  to  be  here  scanty,  and  even  of  brachial,  pectoral,  and 
other  admirable  muscles.  If  you  choose  to  look  at  the  faces 
instead,  you  will  find  something  in  them  ; nevertheless,  Cnr- 
paccio  has  been,  on  the  whole,  playing  with  himself,  and  with 
us,  in  his  treatment  of  this  subject.  For  Carpaccio,  is,  in  the 


* Not  in  the  least  unnaturally  thin,  however,  in  the  forms  of  persons 
of  sedentary  life.  , 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  307 

most  vital  and  conclusive  sense,  a man  of  genius,  who  Avill  not 
at  all  supply  you,  nor  can  in  the  least  supply  himself,  with 
sulhimity  and  pathos  to  order  ; but  is  sublime,  or  delightful, 
or  sometimes  dull,  or  frequently  grotesque,  as  Heaven  wills 
it ; or — profane  persons  will  say — as  the  humor  takes  him. 
And  his  humor  here  has  been  dominant.  For  since  much  de- 
pends on  the  answer  brought  back  from  St.  Ursula,  besides 
the  young  Prince’s  happiness,  one  should  have  thought,  the 
return  of  the  embassy  might  have  been  represented  in  a loftier 
manner.  But  only  two  of  the  ambassadors  are  here  ; the  king 
is  occupied  in  hearing  a cause  which  will  take  long — (see  how 
gravely  his  minister  is  reading  over  the  documents  in  ques- 
tion) ; meantime  the  young  prince,  impatient,  going  down 
the  steps  of  the  throne,  makes  his  own  private  inquiries, 
proudly  : “ Your  embassy  has,  I trust,  been  received,  gentle- 
men, Avith  a just  understanding  of  our  diplomatic  relations  ? ” 
“ Your  Koyal  Highness,”  the  lowly  and  gravely  bowing  prin- 
cipal ambassador  replies,  “ must  j^ourself  be  the  only  fitting 
judge  of  that  matter,  on  full}^  hearing  our  report.”  Meantime, 
the  charge  d’affaires  holds  St.  Ursula’s  answer — behind  his 
back. 

A piece  of  play,  very  nearly,  the  whole  picture  ; a painter 
living  in  the  midst  of  a prosperous  city,  happy  in  his  oavii 
power,  entirely  believing  in  God,  and  in  the  saints,  and  in 
eternal  life  ; and,  at  intervals,  bending  his  whole  soul  to  the 
expression  of  most  deep  and  holy  tragedy — such  a man  needs 
must  have  his  times  of  play  ; which  Carpaccio  takes,  in  his 
work.  Another  man,  instead  of  painting  this  piece  with  its 
monke}",  and  its  little  fiddler,  and  its  jesting  courtiers,  would 
have  played  some  ape-tricks  of  his  OAvn — spent  an  hour  or  two 
among  literal  fiddlers,  and  living  courtiers.  Carpaccio  is  not 
heard  of  among  such — amuses  himself  still  with  pencil  in  hand, 
and  us  also,  pleasantly,  for  a little  while.  You  shall  be  serious 
enough,  soon,  with  him,  if  you  Avill. 

But  I find  this  Guide  must  run  into  greater  division,  for  I 
can’t  get  the  end  of  it  properly  done  yet  for  some  days  ; 
during  the  winter  the  gallery  was  too  cold  for  me  to  think 
quietly  in,  and  so  I am  obliged,  as  Fate  always  lately  obliges 


36S  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


me,  to  do  this  work  from  pen  to  print — at  speed  ; so  that, 
quitting  Carpaccio  for  the  nonce,  I will  tell  you  a little  more 
about  the  general  contents  of  the  rooms  ; and  so  afterward 
take  up  St.  Ursula’s  pilgrimage,  undisturbed.*  Now,  there- 
fore, I will  simply  follow  the  order  of  the  room  circuit,  noting 
the  pieces  worth  study,  if  you  have  proper  time. 

From  before  this  picture  which  has  so  long  held  us,  go 
down  the  steps  on  the  right  of  it,  into  the  lower  room. 

Turning  round  immediately,  you  have  good  sight  of  two 
Paul  Veroneses,  one  on  each  side  of  the  steps.  The  upper 
group  of  the  picture  on  your  left  (603),  Madonna  borne  by 
angels  at  her  knees,  and  encompassed  by  a circlet  of  them,  is 
the  loveliest  piece  of  Veronese  in  these  galleries,  nor  can  you 
see  a better  in  the  world ; but,  considered  as  a whole,  the 
picture  is  a failure  ; all  the  sub-celestial  part  of  it  being  wholly 
dull.  Nevertheless,  for  essential  study  of  Veronese’s  faculty, 
you  cannot  find  anything  better  in  Venice  than  that  upper 
group ; and  the  opposite  picture,  though  confused,  is  worth 
attentive  pause  from  all  painters. 

597.  Le  Brun.  Sent  from  Paris,  you  see,  in  exchange  for 
the  Cena  of  Paul  Veronese. 

The  Cena  of  Paul  Veronese  being  worth — at  moderate 
estimate  of  its  eternal  and  intrinsic  art-value — I should  say, 
roughly,  about  ten  good  millions  of  sterling  ducats,  or  twenty 
ironclads  ; and  the  Le  Brun,  worth,  if  it  were  put  to  proper 
use,  precisely  what  its  canvas  may  now  be  worth  to  make  a 
packing-case  of ; but,  as  hung  here,  in  negative  value,  and 
effectual  mischief,  in  disgracing  the  rooms,  and  keeping  fine 
pictures  invisibly  out  of  the  way — a piece  of  vital  poverty  and 
calamity  much  more  than  equivalent  to  the  presence  of  a dirty, 
torn  rag,  which  the  public  would  at  once  know  to  be  worth- 
less, in  its  place  instead. 

569,  570.  Standard  average  portrait-pieces,  fairly  repre- 

* This  I am  now  doing  in  a separate  Guide  to  the  works  of  Carpaccio 
in  Venice  ; these  two  parts,  now  published,  contain  all  I have  to  say 
about  the  Academy. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS,  369 

sentative  of  Tintoret’s  quiet  work,  and  of  Venetian  magis- 
trates—-Camerlenglii  di  Comune.  Compare  587  ; very  beau- 
tiful. 

581,  582,  583.  Spoils  of  the  Church  of  the  Carita,  whose 
ruins  you  have  seen.  Venice  being  of  all  cities  the  only  one 
which  has  sacked  herself,  not  in  revolution,  but  mere  blun- 
dering beggary  ; suppressing  every  church  that  had  blessed 
her,  and  every  society  that  had  comforted.  But  at  all  events 
you  see  the  pictures  here  ; and  the  Cima  is  a fine  one  ; but 
what  time  you  give  to  this  painter  should  be  spent  chiefly 
with  his  John  the  Baptist  at  the  Madonna  dell’  Orto. 

586.  Once  a Bonifazio  of  very  high  order  ; sorrowfully 
repainted  with  loss  of  half  its  life.  But  a picture,  still,  de- 
serving honor. 

From  this  room  you  find  access  either  to  the  modern  pict- 
ures, or  by  the  door  on  the  left  hand  of  the  Cima,  to  the  col- 
lection of  drawings.  The  well-known  series  by  Kaphael  and 
Lionardo  are  of  the  very  highest  historical  value  and  artistic 
interest ; but  it  is  curious  to  find,  in  Venice,  scarcely  a scratch 
or  blot  remaining  of  elementary  study  by  any  great  Venetian 
master.  Her  painters  drew  little  in  black  and  white,  and 
must  have  thrown  such  sketches,  when  they  made  them,  away 
for  mere  waste  paper.  For  all  discussion  of  their  methods 
of  learning  to  draw  with  color  from  the  first,  I must  refer  my 
readers  to  my  Art  lectures. 

The  Lionardo  drawings  here  are  the  finest  I know  ; none 
in  the  Ambrosian  library  equal  them  in  execution. 

The  staircase  leading  out  of  this  room  descends  into  the 
Hall  of  Titian’s  Assumption,  where  I have  said  nothing  yet  of 
his  last  picture  (33),  nor  of  that  called  in  the  Guide-books  an 
example  of  his  first  style  (35). 

It  has  always  been  with  me  an  intended  piece  of  work  to 
trace  the  real  method  of  Titian’s  study,  and  the  changes  of 
his  mind.  But  I shall  never  do  it  now  ; and  am  hitherto 

* For  reasons  which  any  acute  reader  naay  enough  discover  in  my 
lecture  on  Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret. 

34 


370  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


entirely  unacquainted  with  his  early  work.  If  this  be  indeed 
his,  and  a juvenile  piece,  it  indicates  a breadth  of  manner,  and 
conventionally  artistic  way  of  looking  at  nature,  entirely  pe- 
culiar to  him  or  to  his  era.  The  picture  which  he  left  unfin- 
ished might  most  fittingly  be  called  the  Shadow  of  Death.  It 
is  full  of  the  profoundest  metaphysical  interest  to  me ; but 
cannot  be  analyzed  here. 

In  general,  Titian  is  ill-represented  in  his  own  Venice. 
The  best  example  of  him,  by  far,  is  the  portrait  group  of  the 
Pesaro  family  in  the  Frari.  The  St.  Mark  in  the  Sacristy  of 
the  Salute  was,  in  my  early  days,  entirely  glorious  ; but  has 
been  daubed  over  into  ruin.  The  roof  of  the  Sacristy  in  the 
Salute,  with  the  fresco  of  St.  Christopher,*  and  the  portrait 
of  the  Doge  Grimani  before  Faith,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  are 
all  the  remnants  of  him  that  are  worth  study  here,  since  the 
destruction  in  the  Peter  Martyr.f  The  St.  John  the  Baptist 
in  this  gallery  (366),  is  really  too  stupid  to  be  endured,  and 
the  black  and  white  scrabble  of  landscape  in  it  is  like  a bad 
copy  of  Euysdael. 

45.  The  Miracle  of  St.  Mark  ; a fine,  but  much- overrated, 
Tintoret.  If  any  painter  of  real  power  wishes  to  study  this 
master,  let  him  be  content  with  the  Paradise  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  and  the  School  of  St.  Roch,  where  no  harmful  repaint- 
ing has  yet  taken  place.  The  once  mighty  pictures  in  the 
Madonna  dell’  Orto  are  destroyed  by  restoration  ; and  those 
which  are  scattered  about  the  other  churches  are  scarcely 
worth  pursuit,  while  the  series  of  St.  Roch  remains  in  its 
purity. 

In  the  next  room  to  this  (Sala  III.)  the  pictures  on  the 


* An  admirable  account  of  this  fresco  is  given  by  Mr.  Edward  Cheney, 
in  “ Original  Documents  Relating  to  Venetian  Painters  and  their  Pictures 
in  the  Eighteenth  Century,”  pp.  60,  61. 

f Of  the  portrait  of  the  Doge  Andrea  Gritti,  in  my  own  possession  at 
Oxford,  I leave  others  to  speak,  when  I can  speak  of  it  no  more.  But 
it  must  be  named  here  as  the  only  fragment  left  of  another  great  picture 
destroyed  by  fire,  which  Tintoret  had  so  loved  and  studied  that  he  re- 
placed it  from  memory. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS,  87l 


ceiling,  brought  from  the  room  of  the  State  Inquisitors,  are 
more  essential,  because  more  easy,  Tintoret-work,  than  the  St. 
Mark,  and  very  delightful  to  me  ; I only  wish  the  Inquisitors 
were  alive  to  enjoy  them  again  themselves,  and  inquire  into  a 
few  things  happening  in  Venice,  and  especially  into  the  relig- 
ious principles  of  her  “ Modern  Painters.” 

We  have  made  the  round  of  the  rooms,  all  but  the  Pina- 
coteca  Contarini,  Sala  V.  and  VI.,  and  the  long  gallery,  Sala 
X.-XIV.,  both  containing  many  smaller  pictures  of  interest ; 
but  of  which  I have  no  time,  nor  much  care,  to  speak — except 
in  complaint  that  detestable  daubs  by  Callot,  Dujardin,  and 
various  ignoti,  should  be  allowed  to  disgrace  the  sixth  sala,  and 
occupy  some  of  the  best  of  the  very  little  good  light  there  is 
in  the  Academy ; thrusting  the  lovely  little  Tintoret,  179 — 
purest  work  of  his  heart  and  fairest  of  his  faculty — high  be- 
yond sight  of  all  its  delicious  painting  ; and  the  excellent  quiet 
portrait,  168,  into  an  unregarded  corner.  I am  always  puzzled 
by  the  smaller  pictures  of  John  Bellini ; many  of  them  here, 
of  whose  authorship  there  can  be  little  doubt,  being  yet  of 
very  feeble  merit.  94  is  fine  ; and  the  five  symbolical  pictures, 
234-238,  in  the  inner  room,  Sala  VI.,  are  interesting  to  my- 
self ; but  may  probably  be  little  so  to  others.  The  fii*st  is, 
(I  believe).  Domestic  Love,  tbe  world  in  her  hand  becoming 
the  color  of  Heaven  ; the  second,  Fortitude  quitting  the  ef- 
feminate Dionysus  ; the  third  (much  the  poorest  and  least  in- 
telligible), Truth,  or  Prudence  ; the  fourth,  Lust ; and  the  fifth, 
Fortune  as  Opportunity,  in  distinction  from  the  greater  and 
sacred  Fortune  appointed  of  Heaven. 

And  now,  if  you  are  yet  uiifatigued,*  you  had  better  go 
back  into  the  great  room,  and  give  thorough  examination  to 
the  wonderful  painting,  as  such,  in  the  greed  Veronese,  con- 
sidering what  all  its  shows  and  dexterities  at  last  came  to,  and 
reading,  before  it,  his  examination  concerning  it,  given  in 
Appendix,  which  shows  you  that  Venice  herself  felt  what  they 
were  likely  to  come  to,  though  in  vain  ; and  then,  for  contrast 
with  its  reckless  power,  and  for  final  image  to  be  remembered 


If  you  are,  end  with  179,  and  remember  it  well. 


372  THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


of  sweet  Italian  art  in  its  earnestness,  return  into  the  long 
gallery  (through  the  two  great  rooms,  turning  your  back  on 
the  Veronese,  then  out  by  the  door  opposite  Titian’s  huge 
picture  ; then  out  of  the  corridor  by  the  first  door  on  the  right, 
and  walk  down  the  gallery),  to  its  little  Sala  X.,  where,  high 
on  your  left,  360,  is  the  Beata  Catherine  Vigri’s  St.  Ursula  ; 
Catherine  Vigri  herself,  it  may  be,  kneeling  to  her.  Truly  a 
very  much  blessed  Catherine,  and,  I should  say,  far  more  than 
half-way  to  a saint,  knowing,  however,  of  her,  and  her  work, 
only  this  picture.  Of  which  I will  only  say  in  closing,  as  I 
said  of  the  Vicar’s  picture  in  beginning,  that  it  would  be  well 
if  any  of  us  could  do  such  things  nowadays — and  more  especi- 
ally, if  our  vicars  and  young  ladies  could. 


APPENDIX. 


The  little  collection  of  “ Documents  relating  to  Venetian  ” Painters 
already  referred  to  (p.  370),  as  made  with  excellent  judgment  by  Mr. 
Edward  Cheney,  is,  I regret  to  say,  “ communicated  ” only  to  the  author’s 
friends,  of  whom  I,  being  now  one  of  long  standing,  emboldened  also 
by  repeated  instances  of  help  received  from  him,  venture  to  trespass  on 
the  modest  book  so  far  as  to  reprint  part  of  the  translation  which  it  gives 
of  the  questioning  of  Paul  Veronese. 

“It  is  well  known,”  says  Mr.  Cheney  in  his  prefatory  remarks,  “to 
the  students  of  Venetian  history,  that  the  Roman  Inquisition  was  allowed 
little  influence,  and  still  less  power,  in  the  states  of  the  Signory  ; and 
its  sittings  were  always  attended  by  lay  members,  selected  from  the 
Senate,  to  regulate  and  report  its  proceedings. 

“The  sittings  of  the  Holy  Office  were  held  in  the  chapel  of  St. 
Theodore,  fronting  the  door  leading  from  St.  Mark's  Church  to  the 
Fondamenta  di  Canonica.” 

On  Saturday,  the  8th  July,  1573,  Master  Paul  Caliari,  of  Verona,  a 
painter,  residing  in  the  parish  of  St.  Samuel,  v/as  brought  before  the 
Sacred  Tribunal  ; and  being  asked  his  name  and  surname,  answered  as 
above  ; and  being  asked  of  his  profession,  answered : 

“ H.  I invent  and  draw  figures. 

Do  you  knov/  the  reason  why  you  have  been  summoned  ? 

A.  No,  my  lord. 

Q.  Can  you  imagine  it  ? 

A.  I can  imagine  it. 

Q.  Tell  us  what  you  imagine. 

A.  For  the  reason  whicli  the  Reverend  Prior  of  SS.  Giovanni  and 
Paolo,  whose  name  I know  not,  told  me  that  he  had  been  here,  and  that 
your  illustrious  lordships  had  given  him  orders  that  I should  snbstitnte 
the  figure  of  the  Magdalen  for  that  of  a dog  ; and  I replied  that  I would 
willingly  have  done  this,  or  anything  else  for  my  own  credit  and  the 
advantage  of  the  picture,  but  that  I did  not  think  the  figure  of  the 


374: 


APPENDIX. 


Magdalen  would  be  fitting  (!!)*  or  would  look  well,  for  many  reasons, 
which  I will  always  assign  whenever  the  opportunity  is  given  me. 

Q.  What  picture  is  that  which  you  have  named  ? 

A.  It  is  the  picture  representing  the  last)-  supper  that  Jesus  took  with 
His  disciples  in  the  house  of  Simon. 

Q.  Where  is  this  picture  ? 

A,  In  the  refectory  of  the  Friars  of  SS.  Giovanni  and  Paolo. 

Q.  Is  it  painted  on  the  wall,  on  panel,  or  on  cloth  ? 

A,  On  cloth. 

Q.  How  many  feet  is  it  in  height  ? 

A.  It  is  about  seventeen  feet. 

Q.  How  wide  ? 

A.  About  thirty-nine  feet. 

Q.  In  this  supper  of  our  Lord  have  you  painted  any  attendants  ? 

A.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Q.  Say  how  many  attendants,  and  what  each  is  doing. 

A.  First,  the  master  of  the  house,  Simon  ; besides,  I have  placed  be- 
fow  him  a server,  who  I have  supposed  to  have  come  for  his  own  amuse- 


* I must  interpolate  two  notes  of  adimration.  After  all  one  has  heard  of 
the  terrors  of  the  Inquisition,  it  seems,  nevertheless,  some  people  ventured  to 
di  fier  with  it  in  opinion,  on  occasion.  And  the  Inquisition  was  entirely  right, 
too.  See  next  note. 

t “ Cena  ultima  che,”  etc.  : the  last,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  two  which  Veronese 
supposed  Christ  to  have  taken  with  this  host ; but  he  had  not  carefully  enough 
examined  the  apparently  parallel  passages.  They  are  confusing  enough,  and 
perhaps  the  reader  will  be  glad  to  refer  to  them  in  their  proper  order. 

I.  There  is  first,  the  feast  given  to  Christ  by  St.  Matthew  after  he  was  called ; 
the  circumstances  of  it  told  by  himself;  only  saying  “ the  house”  instead  of 
'•'■my  house”  (Matt.  ix.  9-13).  This  is  the  feast  at  which  the  objection  is 
taken  by  the  Pharisees — “ Why  eateth  your  Master  with  publicans  and  sin- 
ners ? ” the  event  being  again  related  by  St.  Luke  (v.  29),  giving  Matthew  the 
name  of  Levi.  No  other  circumstance  of  interest  takes  place  on  this  occasion. 

II.  “ One  of  the  Pharisees  desired  Him  that  He  would  eat  with  him  : and 
He  went  into  the  Pharisee’s  house,  and  sat  down  to  meat  ” (Luke  viii.  86). 

To  this  feast  came  the  Magdalen,  and  “ stood  at  His  feet,  behind  Him, 
weeping.”  And  you  know  the  rest.  The  same  lesson  given  to  the  Pharisees 
who  forbade  the  feast  of  Matthew,  here  given — in  how  much  more  pathetic 
force — to  the  Pharisee  at  whose  feast  Jesus  now  sat.  Another  manner  of 
sinner  this,  who  stands  uncalled,  at  the  feast,  weeping  ; who  in  a little  while 
will  stand  weeping — not  for  herself.  The  name  of  the  Pharisee  host  is  given 
in  Christ’s  grave  address  to  him — “ Simon,  I have  somewhat  to  say  unto  thee.” 

III.  The  supper  at  Bethany,  in  the  house  of  Simon  “the  Leper,”  where 
Lazarus  sat  at  table,  where  Martha  served,  and  where  her  sister  Mary  poured 
the  ointment  on  Christ’s  head,  “for  my  burial  ” (Mark  xiv.  3 ; Matt.  xxvi.  7 ; 
and  John  xii.  2,  where  in  the  following  third  verse  doubtless  some  copyist, 
confusing  her  with  the  Magdalen,  added  the  clause  of  her  wiping  His  feet  with 


APPENDIX, 


375 


ment  to  see  the  arrangement  of  the  table,  Tliere  are  besides  several 
others,* * * * §  v/hicli,  as  tliere  are  many  figures  in  the  picture,  I do  not  rec- 
ollect. 

Q.  What  is  the  meaning  of  those  men  dressed  in  the  German 
fashion  V f each  with  a halbert  in  his  hand  ? 

A.  It  is  now  necessary  that  I should  say  a few  words.:]; 

IVie  Court.  Say  on. 

A.  We  painters  take  the  same  license  that  is  permitted  to  poets,  and 
jesters  (!).  I have  jdaced  those  two  halberdiers — the  one  eating,  the 
other  drinking  § — by  the  staircase,  to  be  supposed  ready  to  perform  any 
duty  that  may  be  required  of  them  ; it  appearing  to  me  quite  fitting  that 
the  master  of  such  a house,  who  was  rich  and  great  (as  1 have  been 
told),  should  have  such  attendants. 

Q.  That  fellow  dressed  like  a buffoon,  with  the  parrot  on  his  wrist— 
for  what  purpose  is  he  introduced  into  the  canvas  V 

A.  For  ornament,  as  is  usually  done.  |j 

Q.  At  the  table  of  the  Lord  whom  have  you  placed  ? 

A.  The  twelve  ajiostles. 


her  hair — so  also,  more  palpably,  in  John  xi.  2),  Here  the  objection  ia  made 
by  Judas,  and  the  lesson  given — “ The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you.” 

We  cannot  seriously  suppose  Simon  the  Leper  to  be  the  same  person  as  Simon 
the  Pharisee ; still  less  Simon  the  Pharisee  to  be  the  same  as  Matthew  the 
publican  : but  in  Veronese’s  mind  their  three  feasts  had  got  confused,  and  ha 
tiiinks  of  them  as  two  only,  and  calls  this  which  he  represents  here  the  last  of 
the  two,  though  there  is  nothing  whatever  to  identify  it  as  first,  last,  or  middle. 
There  is  no  Magdalen,  no  Mary,  no  Lazarus,  no  hospitable  Levi,  no  supercili- 
ous Simon.  Nothing  but  a confused  meeting  of  very  mixed  company  ; half  of 
them  straggling  about  the  table  Avithout  sitting  down ; and  the  conspicuous 
brown  dog,  for  whom  the  Inquisitors  would  have  had  him  substitute  the  Mag- 
dalen— which,  if  he  had  done,  the  picture  w'ould  have  been  right  in  all  other 
I articulars,  the  scarlet-robed  figure  opposite  Christ  then  becoming  Simon  the 
Pharisee  ; but  ho  cannot  be  Matthew  the  apostle,  for  Veronese  distinctly 
names  the  twelve  apostles  after  “ the  master  of  the  house  and  the  text  written 
on  the  balustrade  on  the  left  is  therefore  either  spurious  altogether,  or  added 
by  Veronese  to  get  rid  of  the  necessity  of  putting  in  a Magdalen  to  satisfy  his 
examiners,  or  please  the  Prior  of  St.  John  and  Paul. 

* Yes,  there  certainly  are  “ several  others” — some  score  of  idlers  about,  I 
should  say.  But  this  longer  answer  of  the  painter’s  was  probably  little  attend- 
ed to,  and  ill  reported  by  the  secretary. 

+ My  lords  have  suspicions  of  leaning  tov/ard  the  principles — no  less  than 
the  taste — of  Holbein  ; and  of  meaning  some  mischief. 

X He  instantly  feels  the  drift  of  this  last  question,  and  that  it  must  not  be 
passed  lightly.  Asks  leave  to  speak — (usually  no  license  but  of  direct  answer 
being  given). 

§ On  the  right.  One  has  got  all  the  eating  and  drinking  to  himself,  however, 
as  far  as  I can  see. 

II  Alas,  everything  is  for  ornament — if  you  would  own  it.  Master  Paul! 


376 


APPENDIX, 


Q.  What  is  St.  Peter  doing,  who  is  the  first  ? * * * § 

A.  He  is  cutting  up  a lamb,  to  send  to  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

Q.  What  is  he  doing,  who  is  next  to  him  ? 

A.  He  is  holding  a plate  to  receive  what  St.  Peter  will  give  him. 

Q.  Tell  us  what  he  is  doing,  who  is  next  to  this  last  ? 

A.  He  is  using  a fork  as  a toothpick,  f 

Q.  Who  do  you  really  think  were  present  at  that  supper  ? 

A.  I believe  Christ  and  His  apostles  were  present ; but  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture  I have  placed  figures  for  ornament,  of  my  own  in- 
vention. 

Q.  Were  you  commissioned  by  any  person  to  paint  Germans,  and  buf- 
foons, and  such  like  things  in  this  picture  ? 

A.  No,  my  lord  ; my  commission  was  to  ornament  the  picture  as  I 
judged  best,  which,  being  large,  requires  many  figures,  as  it  appears  to 
me. 

Q.  Are  the  ornaments  that  the  painter  is  in  the  habit  of  introducing 
in  his  frescoes  and  pictures  suited  and  fitting  to  the  subject  and  to  the 
principal  persons  represented,  or  does  he  really  paint  such  as  strike  his 
own  fancy  without  exercising  his  judgment  or  his  discretion  ? X 

A.  I design  my  pictures  with  all  due  consideration  as  to  what  is  fit- 
ting, and  to  the  best  of  my  judgment. 

Q.  Does  it  appear  to  you  fitting  that  at  our  Lord’s  last  supper  § you 
should  paint  buffoons,  drunkards,  Germans,  jj  dwarfs,  and  similar  inde- 
cencies ? 

A,  No,  my  lord. 

Q.  Why,  then,  have  you  painted  them  ? 

A.  I have  done  it  because  I supposed  that  these  were  not  in  the  place 
where  the  supper  was  served. 

Q.  Are  you  not  aware  that  in  Germany,^  and  in  other  places  infected 
with  heresy,  they  are  in  the  habit  of  painting  pictures  full  of  scurrility 
for  the  purpose  of  ridiculing  and  degrading  the  Holy  Church,  and  thus 
teaching  false  doctrines  to  the  ignorant  and  foolish  ? 

A.  Yes,  my  lord,  it  is  bad  ; but  I return  to  what  I said  before  ; I 
thought  myself  obliged  to  do  as  others — my  predecessors — had  done 
before  me. 

Q.  And  have  your  predecessors,  then,  done  such  things  ? 

A.  Michael-Angelo,  in  the  Papal  Chapel  in  Rome,  has  painted  our 


* Very  curious  that  no  question  is  asked  as  to  what  Christ  Himself  is  doing. 
One  would  have  greatly  desired  Veronese’s  answer. 

t Scarcely  seen,  between  the  two  pillars.  I must  needs  admit  that  Raphael 
would  have  invented  some  more  dignifiedly  apostolic  action. 

X Admirably  put,  my  lord. 

§ Not  meaning  the  Cena,  of  course  ; but  what  Veronese  also  meant. 

II  and  ^ The  gist  of  the  business,  at  last. 


APPENDIX. 


877 


Lord  Jesus  Christ,  His  mother,  St.  John,  and  St.  Peter,  and  all  tlie 
Court  of  Heaven,  from  the  Virgin  Mary  downward,  all  naked,  and  in 
various  attitudes,  with  little  reverence. 

Q.  Do  you  not  ki\ovv  that  in  a painting  like  the  Last  Judgment,  where 
drapery  is  not  supposed,  drosses  are  not  required,  and  that  disembodied 
s])irits  only  are  represented  ; but  there  are  neither  buffoons,  nor  dogs, 
nor  armoi',  nor  any  other  absurdity  ? And  does  it  not  appear  to  you 
that  neither  by  this  nor  any  other  example  you  have  done  light  in 
painting  the  picture  in  this  manner,  and  that  it  can  be  proved  right  and 
decent  ? 

A.  Illustrious  Lord,  I do  not  defend  it ; but  I thought  I was  doing 
right.  I had  not  considered  all  these  things,  never  intending  to  com- 
mit any  impropriety  ; the  more  so  as  figures  of  buffoons  are  not  supposed 
to  be  in  the  same  place  where  our  Lord  is. 

Which  examination  ended,  my  lords  decreed  that  the  above-named 
Master  Paul  should  be  bound  to  correct  and  amend  the  picture  which 
liad  been  under  question,  within  three  months,  at  his  own  expense, 
under  penalties  to  be  imposed  by  the  Sacred  Tribunal.” 

This  sentence,  liowever  severe  in  terms,  was  merely  a matter  of  form. 
The  examiners  were  satisfied  there  was  no  malice  prepense  in  their 
fanciful  Paul : and  troubled  neither  him  nor  themselves  farther.  He 
did  not  so  much  as  efface  the  inculpated  dog  ; and  tlie  only  correction 
or  amendment  he  made,  so  far  as  I can  see,  was  the  addition  of  the  in= 
scriptiou,  which  marked  the  picture  for  the  feast  of  Levi. 


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“PR/ETERITA” 


OUTLINES  OF  SCENES  AND  THOUGHTS 
PERHAPS  WORTPIY  OF  MEMORY, 

IN  MY  PAST  LIFE 


PREFACE. 


I HAVE  wiitteu  these  sketches  of  effort  and  incident  is 
former  years  for  my  friends  ; and  for  those  of  the  public 
who  have  been  pleased  by  my  books. 

I have  written  them  therefore,  frankly,  garrulously, 
and  at  ease ; speaking  of  what  it  gives  me  joy  to  remem- 
ber at  any  length  I like — sometimes  very  carefully  of 
what  I think  it  may  be  useful  for  others  to  know;  and 
passing  in  total  silence  things  which  I have  no  pleasure 
in  reviewing,  and  which  the  reader  would  find  no  help  in 
the  account  of.  My  described  life  has  thus  become  more 
amusing  than  I expected  to  myself,  as  I summoned  its 
long  past  scenes  for  present  scrutiny : its  methods  of 
study,  and  general  principles  of  work,  I feel  justified  in 
recommending  to  other  students  : and  very  certainly  any 
habitual  readers  of  my  books  will  understand  them  better, 
for  having  knowledge  as  complete  as  I can  give  them  of 
the  personal  character  which,  without  endeavor  to  con- 
ceal, I yet  have  never  taken  pains  to  display,  and  even, 
now  and  then,  felt  some  freakish  pleasure  in  exposing  to 
the  chance  of  misinterpretation. 

I write  these  few  prefatory  words  on  my  father’s  birth- 
day, in  what  was  once  my  nursery  in  his  old  house, — to 


6 


PREFACE. 


which  he  brought  my  mother  and  me,  sixty-two  years 
since,  I being  then  four  years  old.  What  would  other- 
wise in  the  following  pages  have  been  little  more  than  an 
old  man’s  recreation  in  gathering  visionary  flowers  in 
fields  of  youth,  has  taken,  as  I wrote,  the  nobler  -aspect 
of  a dutiful  offering  at  the  grave  of  parents  who  trained 
my  childhood  to  all  the  good  it  could  attain,  and  whose 
memory  makes  declining  life  cheerful  in  the  hope  of  be- 
ing soon  again  with  them 


Herne  Hill,  May  10,  1885. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I, 


CHAP.  PACK 

I.  The  Springs  of  Wandel,  ......  13 

II.  Herne-hill  Almond  Blossoms,  ....  30 

III.  The  Banks  of  Tay,  44 


IV.  Under  New  Tutorships, 61 

V.  Parnassus  and  Plynlimmon, 74 


VI.  Schaffhausen  and  Milan, 88 

yil.  Papa  and  Mamma, 101 

VIII.  Vester,  Camen^, 118 

IX.  The  Col  de  la  Faucille, 130 

X.  Quem  tu,  Melpomene,  ......  143 

XI.  Christ  Church  Choir,  .......  159 

XII.  Roslyn  Chapel,  ........  177 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  II. 


CHAP.  TAQX 

I.  Of  Age, 197 

II.  Kome, 211 

III.  CuM^, 225 

IV.  Fontainebleau, 240 

V.  The  Simplon, 256 

VI.  The  Campo  Santo, 273 

VII.  Macugnaga, 289 

VIII.  The  State  of  Denmark, 305 

IX.  The  Feasts  of  the  Vandals, 318 

X.  Crossmount, 335 

XI.  L’HdTEii  DU  Mont  Blanc, 351 

XII.  Otterburn, 371 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  III. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Grand  Chartreuse, 383 

II.  Mont  Velan,  . . . 403 

III.  L’Esterelle,  . • . 433 

IV.  Joanna’s  Care,  434 


PRETERIT  A. 


VOLVME  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 

I am,  and  my  father  was  before  me,  a violent  Tory  of  the 
old  school ; (Walter  Scott’s  school,  that  is  to  say,  and 
Homer’s,)  I name  these  two  out  of  the  numberless  great  Tory 
writers,  because  they  were  my  own  two  masters.  I had 
Walter  Scott’s  novels,  and  the  Iliad,  (Pope’s  translation,)  for 
my  only  reading  when  I was  a child,  on  week-days  : on  Sun- 
days their  effect  was  tempered  by  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the 
Pilgrim’s  Progress  ; my  mother  having  it  deeply  in  her  heart 
to  make  an  evangelical  clergyman  of  me.  Fortunately,  I had 
an  aunt  more  evangelical  than  my  mother  ; and  my  aunt  gave 
me  cold  mutton  for  Sunday’s  dinner,  which — as  I much  pre- 
ferred it  hot— greatly  diminished  the  influence  of  the  Pil- 
grim’s Progress,  and  the  end  of  the  matter  was,  that  I got  all 
the  noble  imaginative  teaching  of  Defoe  and  Bunyan,  and  yet 
— am  not  an  evangelical  clergyman. 

I had,  however,  still  better  teaching  than  theirs,  and  that 
compulsorily,  and  every  day  of  the  week, 

Walter  Scott  and  Pope’s  Homer  were  reading  of  my  own 
election,  but  my  mother  forced  me,  by  steady  daily  toil,  to 
learn  long  chapters  of  the  Bible  by  heart  ; as  well  as  to  read 
it  every  syllable  through,  aloud,  hard  names  and  all,  from 
Genesis  to  the  Apocalypse,  about  once  a year  : and  to  that 
discipline — patient,  accurate,  and  resolute — I owe,  not  only  a 


14 


PRMTEUITA. 


knowledge  of  the  book,  which  I find  occfisionally  serviceable, 
but  much  of  my  general  power  of  taking  pains,  and  tlie  best 
part  of  my  taste  in  literature.  From  Walter  Scott’s  novels  I 
might  easily,  as  I grew  older,  have  fallen  to  other  people’s 
novels ; and  Pope  might,  perhaps,  have  led  me  to  take  John- 
son’s English,  or  Gibbon’s,  as  types  of  language  ; but,  once 
knowing  the  32d  of  Deuteronomy,  the  119th  Psalm,  the 
15th  of  1st  Corinthians,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  most 
of  the  Apocalypse,  every  syllable  by  heart,  and  having  always 
a way  of  thinking  with  myself  what  words  meant,  it  was  not 
possible  for  me,  even  in  the  foolishest  times  of  youth,  to  write 
entirely  superficial  or  formal  English ; and  the  affectation  of 
trying  to  write  like  Hooker  and  George  Herbert  was  the  most 
innocent  I could  have  fallen  into. 

From  my  own  chosen  masters,  then,  Scott  and  Homer,  I 
learned  the  Toryism  which  my  best  after-thought  has  only 
served  to  confirm. 

That  is  to  say  a most  sincere  love  of  kings,  and  dislike  of 
everybody  who  attempted  to  disobey  them.  Only,  both  by 
Homer  and  Scott,  I was  taught  strange  ideas  about  kings, 
which  I find  for  the  present  much  obsolete  ; for,  I perceived 
that  both  the  author  of  the  Iliad  and  the  author  of  Waverley 
made  their  kings,  or  king-loving  persons,  do  harder  work 
than  anybody  else.  Tydides  or  Idomeneus  always  killed 
twenty  Trojans  to  other  people’s  one,  and  Eedgauntlet 
speared  more  salmon  than  any  of  the  Solway  fishermen,  and 
— which  was  particularly  a subject  of  admiration  to  me — I 
observed  that  they  not  only  did  more,  but  in  proportion  to 
their  doings,  got  less  than  other  people — nay,  that  the  best 
of  them  were  even  ready  to  govern  for  nothing ! and  let 
their  followers  divide  any  quantity  of  spoil  or  profit.  Of  late 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  idea  of  a king  has  become  exactly 
the  contrary  of  this,  and  that  it  has  been  supposed  the  duty 
of  superior  persons  generally  to  govern  less,  and  get  more, 
than  anybody  else.  So  that  it  was,  perhaps,  quite  as  well 
that  in  those  early  days  my  contemplation  of  existent  king- 
ship was  a very  distant  one. 

The  aunt  who  gave  me  cold  mutton  on  Sundays  was  my 


THE  8PBIN0S  OF  WANDEL. 


15 


father’s  sister : she  lived  at  Bridge-end,  in  the  town  of  Perth, 
and  had  a garden  full  of  gooseberry-bushes,  sloping  down  to 
the  Tay,  with  a door  opening  to  the  water,  which  ran  past  it, 
clear-brown  over  the  pebbles  three  or  four  feet  deep  ; swift- 
eddying, — an  infinite  thing  for  a child  to  look  down  into. 

My  father  began  business  as  a wine-merchant,  with  no  capi- 
tal, and  a considerable  amount  of  debts  bequeathed  him  by 
my  grandfather.  He  accepted  the  bequest,  and  paid  them 
all  before  he  began  to  lay  by  anything  for  himself,  for  which 
his  best  friends  called  him  a fool,  and  I,  without  expressing 
any  opinion  as  to  his  wisdom,  which  I knew  in  such  matters 
to  be  at  least  equal  to  mine,  have  written  on  the  granite  slab 
over  his  grave  that  he  was  “an  entirely  honest  merchant.”  As 
days  went  on  he  was  able  to  take  a house  in  Hunter  Street, 
Brunswick  Square,  No.  54,  (the  windows  of  it,  fortunately  for 
me,  commanded  a view  of  a marvellous  iron  post,  out  of  which 
the  water-carts  were  filled  through  beautiful  little  trap-doors, 
by  pipes  like  boa-constrictors  ; and  I was  never  weary  of  con- 
templating that  mystery,  and  the  delicious  dripping  conse- 
quent) ; and  as  years  went  on,  and  I came  to  be  four  or  five 
years  old,  he  could  command  a postchaise  and  pair  for  two 
months  in  the  summer,  by  help  of  which,  with  my  mother  and 
me,  he  went  the  round  of  his  country  customers  (who  liked 
to  see  the  principal  of  the  house  his  own  traveller)  ; so  that, 
at  a jog-trot  pace,  and  through  the  panoramic  opening  of  the 
four  windows  of  a post-chaise,  made  more  panoramic  still  to 
me  because  my  seat  was  a little  bracket  in  front,  (for  we  used 
to  hire  the  chaise  regularly  for  the  two  months  out  of  Long- 
Acre,  and  so  could  have  it  bracketed  and  pocketed  as  we  liked,) 
I sav/  all  the  high-roads,  and  most  of  the  cross  ones,  of  Eng- 
land and  Wales,  and  great  part  of  lowland  Scotland,  as  far  as 
Perth,  where  every  other  year  we  spent  the  whole  summer  ; 
and  I used  to  read  the  Abbot  at  Kinross,  and  the  Monastery 
in  Glen  Farg,  which  I confused  with  “ Glendearg,”  and  thought 
that  the  White  Lady  had  as  certainly  lived  by  the  streamlet  in 
that  glen  of  the  Ochils,  as  the  Queen  of  Scots  in  the  island  of 
Loch  Leven. 

To  my  farther  great  benefit,  as  I grew  older,  I thus  saw 


16 


mMTERITA. 


Dearly  all  the  noblemen’s  houses  in  England ; in  reverent  and 
healthy  delight  of  uncovetous  admiration, — perceiving,  as 
soon  as  I could  perceive  any  political  truth  at  all,  that  it  was 
probably  much  happier  to  live  in  a small  house,  and  have 
Warwick  Castle  to  be  astonished  at,  than  to  live  in  Warwick 
Castle  and  have  nothing  to  be  astonished  at ; but  that,  at  all 
events,  it  would  not  make  Brunswick  Square  in  the  least 
more  pleasantly  habitable,  to  pull  Warwick  Castle  down. 
And,  at  this  day,  though  I have  kind  invitations  enough  to 
visit  America,  I could  not,  even  for  a couple  of  months,  live 
in  a country  so  miserable  as  to  possess  no  castles. 

Nevertheless,  having  formed  my  notion  of  kinghood  chiefly 
from  the  FitzJames  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  of  noblesse 
from  the  Douglas  there,  and  the  Douglas  in  Marmion,  a 
painful  wonder  soon  arose  in  my  child-mind,  why  the  castles 
should  now  be  always  empty.  Tantallon  was  there ; but  no 
Archibald  of  Angus  : — Stirling,  but  no  Knight  of  Snowdoun. 
The  galleries  and  gardens  of  England  were  beautiful  to  see 
— but  his  Lordship  and  her  Ladyship  were  always  in  town, 
said  the  housekeepers  and  gardeners.  Deep  yearning  took 
hold  of  me  for  a kind  of  “Restoration,”  which  I began  slowly 
to  feel  that  Charles  the  Second  had  not  altogether  effected, 
though  I always  wore  a gilded  oak-apple  very  piously  in  my 
button-hole  on  the  29th  of  May.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
Charles  the  Second’s  Restoration  had  been,  as  compared  with 
the  Restoration  I wanted,  much  as  that  gilded  oak-apple  to  a 
real  apple.  And  as  I grew  wiser,  the  desire  for  sweet  pip- 
pins instead  of  bitter  ones,  and  Living  Kings  instead  of  dead 
ones,  appeared  to  me  rational  as  well  as  romantic  ; and  grad- 
ually it  has  become  the  main  purpose  of  my  life  to  grow  pip- 
pins, and  its  chief  hope,  to  see  Kings.* 

I have  never  been  able  to  trace  these  prejudices  to  any 
royalty  of  descent : of  my  father’s  ancestors  I know  nothing. 


* The  St.  George’s  Company  was  founded  for  the  promotion  of  agri- 
cultural instead  of  town  life : and  my  only  hope  of  prosperity  for 
England,  or  any  other  country  in  whatever  life  they  lead,  is  in  their 
discovering  and  obeying  men  capable  of  Kinghood. 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 


17 


nor  of  my  motlier’s  more  than  that  my  maternal  grandmother 
was  the  landlady  of  the  Old  King’s  Head  in  Market  Street, 
Croydon  ; and  I wish  she  were  alive  again,  and  I could  paint 
her  Simone  Memmi’s  King’s  Head,  for  a sign. 

My  maternal  grandfather  was,  as  I have  said,  a sailor,  who 
used  to  embark,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  at  Yarmouth,  and 
come  back  at  rare  intervals,  making  himself  very  delightful 
at  home.  I have  an  idea  he  had  something  to  do  with  the 
herring  business,  but  I am  not  clear  on  that  point ; my 
mother  never  being  much  communicative  concerning  it.  He 
spoiled  her,  and  her  (younger)  sister,  with  all  his  heart,  when 
he  was  at  home  ; unless  there  appeared  any  tendency  to 
equivocation,  or  imaginative  statements,  on  the  part  of  the 
children,  which  were  always  unforgivable.  My  mother  being 
once  perceived  by  him  to  have  distinctly  told  him  a lie,  he 
sent  the  servant  out  forthwith  to  buy  an  entire  bundle  of  new 
broom  twigs  to  whip  her  with.  “They  did  not  hurt  me  so 
much  as  one  ” (twig)  “would  have  done,”  said  my  mother, 
“but  I thought  a good  deal  of  it.” 

My  grandfather  was  killed  at  two-and-thirty,  by  trying  to 
ride,  instead  of  walk,  into  Croydon  ; he  got  his  leg  crushed 
by  his  horse  against  a wall ; and  died  of  the  hurt’s  mortifying. 
My  mother  w^as  then  seven  or  eight  years  old,  and,  with  her 
sister,  'was  sent  to  quite  a fashionable  (for  Croydon)  day- 
school,  Mrs.  Rice’s,  where  my  mother  was  taught  evangelical 
principles,  and  became  the  pattern  girl  and  best  needlewoman 
in  the  school  ; and  where  my  aunt  absolutely  refused  evan- 
gelical principles,  and  became  the  plague  and  pet  of  it. 

My  mother,  being  a girl  of  great  power,  with  not  a little 
pride,  grew  more  and  more  exemplary  in  her  entirely  con- 
scientious career,  much  laughed  at,  though  much  beloved,  by 
her  sister  ; who  had  more  wit,  less  pride,  and  no  conscience. 
At  last  my  mother,  formed  into  a consummate  housewife,  was 
sent  for  to  Scotland  to  take  care  of  my  paternal  grandfather’s 
house  ; who  was  gradually  ruining  himself  ; and  who  at  last 
effectually  ruined,  and  killed,  himself.  My  father  came  up  to 
London  ; was  a clerk  in  a merchant’s  house  for  nine  years, 
without  a holiday  ; then  began  business  on  his  own  account ; 

2 


18 


PRu^TEBITA, 


paid  his  father’s  debts ; and  married  his  exemplary  Croydon 
cousin. 

Meantime  my  aunt  had  remained  in  Croydon,  and  married 
a baker.  By  the  time  I was  four  years  old,  and  beginning  to 
recollect  things, — my  father  rapidly  taking  higher  commer- 
cial position  in  London, — there  was  traceable — though  to  me, 
as  a child,  wholly  incomprehensible — just  the  least  possible 
shade  of  shyness  on  the  part  of  Hunter  Street,  Brunswick 
Square,  toward  Market  Street,  Croydon.  But  whenever  my 
father  was  ill, — and  hard  work  and  sorrow  had  already  set 
their  mark  on  him, — we  all  went  down  to  Croydon  to  be 
petted  by  my  homely  aunt ; and  walk  on  Duppas  Hill,  and  on 
the  heather  of  Addington. 

My  aunt  lived  in  the  little  house  still  standing — or  which 
was  so  four  months  ago — the  fashionablest  in  Market  Street, 
having  actually  two  windows  over  the  shop,  in  the  second 
story ; but  I never  troubled  myself  about  that  superior  part  of 
the  mansion,  unless  my  father  happened  to  be  making  draw- 
ings in  Indian  ink,  when  I would  sit  reverently  by  and  watch  ; 
my  chosen  domains  being,  at  all  other  times,  the  shop,  the 
bakehouse,  and  the  stones  round  the  spring  of  crystal  water 
at  the  back  door  (long  since  let  down  into  the  modern  sewer) ; 
and  my  chief  companion,  my  aunt’s  dog,  Towzer,  whom  she 
had  taken  pity  on  when  he  was  a snappish,  starved  vagrant ; 
and  made  a brave  and  affectionate  dog  of  : which  was  the  kind 
of  thing  she  did  for  every  living  creature  that  came  in  her 
way,  all  her  life  long. 

Contented,  by  help  of  these  occasional  glimpses  of  the  riv- 
ers of  Paradise,  I lived  until  I was  more  than  four  years  old 
in  Hunter  Street,  Brunswick  Square,  the  greater  part  of  the 
year  ; for  a few  weeks  in  the  summer  breathing  country  air 
by  taking  lodgings  in  small  cottages  (real  cottages,  not  villas, 
so-called)  either  about  Hampstead,  or  at  Dulwich,  at  “Mrs. 
Ridley’s,”  the  last  of  a row  in  a lane  which  led  out  into  the 
Dulwich  fields  on  one  side,  and  was  itself  full  of  buttercups 
in  spring,  and  blackberries  in  autumn.  But  my  chief  remain- 
ing impressions  of  those  days  are  attached  to  Hunter  Street. 
My  mother’s  general  principles  of  first  treatment  were,  to 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 


19 


guard  me  with  steady  watchfulness  from  all  avoidable  pain  or 
danger  ; and,  for  the  rest,  to  let  me  amuse  myself  as  I liked, 
provided  I was  neither  fretful  nor  troublesome.  But  the  law 
was,  that  I should  find  my  own  amuseineiit.  No  toys  of  any 
kind  were  at  first  allowed  ; — and  the  pity  of  my  Croydon  aunt 
for  my  monastic  poverty  in  this  respect  was  boundless.  On 
one  of  my  birthdays,  thinking  to  overcome  my  mother’s  reso- 
lution by  splendor  of  temptation,  she  bought  the  most  radi- 
ant Punch  and  Judy  she  could  find  in  all  the  Soho  bazaar — 
as  big  as  a real  Punch  and  Judy,  all  dressed  in  scarlet  and 
gold,  and  that  would  dance,  tied  to  the  leg  of  a chair,  I must 
have  been  greatly  impressed,  for  I remember  well  the  look  of 
the  two  figures,  as  my  aunt  herself  exhibited  their  virtues. 
My  mother  was  obliged  to  accept  them  ; but  afterward  qui- 
etly told  me  it  was  not  right  that  I should  have  them  ; and  I 
never  saw  them  again. 

Nor  did  I painfully  wish,  what  I was  never  permitted  for 
an  instant  to  hope,  or  even  imagine,  the  possession  of  such 
things  as  one  saw  in  toy-shops.  I had  a bunch  of  keys  to 
play  with,  as  long  as  I W'as  capable  only  of  pleasure  in  what 
glittered  and  jingled ; as  I grew  older,  I had  a cart,  and  a 
ball ; and  when  I was  five  or  six  years  old,  two  boxes  of  well- 
cut  wooden  bricks.  With  these  modest,  but,  I still  think, 
entirely  sufficient  possessions,  and  being  always  summarily 
whipped  if  I cried,  did  not  do  as  I was  bid,  or  tumbled  on 
the  stairs,  I soon  attained  serene  and  secure  methods  of  life 
and  motion  ; and  could  pass  my  days  contentedly  in  trac- 
ing the  squares  and  comparing  the  colors  of  my  carpet ; — 
examining  the  knots  in  the  wood  of  the  floor,  or  count- 
ing the  bricks  in  the  opposite  houses  ; with  rapturous  in- 
tervals of  excitement  during  the  filling  of  the  water-cart, 
through  its  leathern  pipe,  from  the  dripping  iron  post  at 
the  pavement  edge ; or  the  still  more  admirable  proceed- 
ings of  the  turncock,  when  he  turned  and  turned  till  a 
fountain  sprang  up  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  But  the 
carpet,  and  what  patterns  I could  find  in  bed-covers,  dresses, 
or  wall-papers  to  be  examined,  were  my  chief  resources,  and 
my  attention  to  the  particulars  in  these  was  soon  so  accurate, 


20 


nORTUS  INGUrSUS. 


I left  Eome  yesterda}%  and  am  on  ni}^  way  home  ; but, 
alas  ! might  as  well  be  on  my  way  home  from  Cochin  China, 
for  any  chance  I have  of  speedily  arriving.  Meantime  your 
letters  will  reach  me  here  with  speed,  and  will  be  a great 
comfort  to  me,  if  they  don’t  fatigue  you. 


“fkondes  agkestes.’^ 

Perugia,  \2th  June. 

I am  more  and  more  pleased  at  the  thought  of  this  gathering 
of  yours,  and  soon  expect  to  tell  you  what  the  bookseller  says. 

Meantime  I want  you  to  think  of  the  form  the  collection 
should  take  with  reference  to  my  proposed  re-publication.  I 
mean  to  take  the  botany,  the  geology,  the  Turner  defence,  and 
the  general  art  criticism  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  as  four  separate 
books,  cutting  out  nearly  all  the  preaching,  and  a good  deal 
of  the  sentiment.  Now  what  you  find  pleasant  and  helpful  to 
3"ou  of  general  maxim  or  reflection,  must  be  of  some  value  ; 
and  I think  therefore  that  your  selection  will  just  do  for  me 
wdiat  no  other  reader  could  have  done,  least  of  all  I myself  ; 
keep  together,  that  is  to  say,  what  may  be  right  and  true  of 
those  youthful  thoughts.  I should  like  3^0 u to  add  anything 
that  specially  pleases  3''ou,  of  whatever  kind  ; but  to  keep  the 
notion  of  your  book  being  the  didactic  one  as  opposed  to  the 
other  picturesque  and  scientific  volumes,  will  I think  help  you 
in  choosing  between  passages  when  one  or  other  is  to  be 
rejected. 


HOW  I FELL  AMONG  THIEVES. 

Assist,  VUh  June. 

I have  been  having  a bad  time  lately,  and  have  no  heart  to 
write  to  you.  Very  difficult  and  melancholy  work,  deciphering 
Avhat  remains  of  a great  painter  among  stains  of  ruin  and 
blotches  of  repair,  of  five  hundred  years’  gathering.  It  makes 
me  sadder  than  idleness,  which  is  saying  much. 

I was  greatly  flattered  and  petted  by  a saying  in  one  of 
3'our  last  letters,  about  the  difficulty  I had  in  unpacking  my 


II0RTU8  INGLUSU8. 


21 


mind.  That  is  true ; one  of  my  chief  troubles  at  present  is 
with  the  quantity  of  things  I want  to  say  at  once.  But  you 
don’t  know  how  I find  things  I laid  by  carefully  in  it,  all 
jnouldy  and  moth-eaten  when  I take  them  out ; and  what  a 
lot  of  mending  and  airing  they  need,  and  v/hat  a wearisome 
and  bothering  business  it  is  compared  to  the  early  packing, — 
one  used  to  be  so  proud  to  get  things  into  the  corners  neatly  ! 

I have  been  failing  in  my  drawings,  too,  and  I’m  in  a 
horrible  inn  kept  by  a Garibaldian  bandit ; and  the  various 
sorts  of  disgusting  dishes  sent  up  to  look  like  a dinner,  and 
to  be  charged  for,  are  a daily  increasing  horror  and  amaze- 
ment to  me.  They  succeed  in  getting  everything  bad  ; no 
exertion,  no  invention,  could  produce  such  badness,  I believe, 
anywhere  else.  The  hills  are  covered  for  leagues  with  olive- 
trees,  and  the  oil’s  bad  ; there  are  no  such  lovely  cattle  else- 
where in  the  world,  and  the  butter’s  bad  ; half  the  country 
people  are  shepherds,  but  there’s  no  mutton ; half  the  old 
women  walk  about  with  a pig  tied  to  their  waists,  but  there’s 
no  pork  ; the  vino  grows  wild  anywliere,  and  the  wine  would 
make  my  teeth  drop  out  of  my  liead  if  I took  a glass  of  it  ; 
there  are  no  strawberries,  no  oranges,  no  melons,  the  cherries 
are  as  hard  as  their  stones,  the  beans  only  good  for  horses, 
or  Jack  and  the  beanstalk,  and  this  is  the  size  of  the  biggest 
asparagus — 


I live  here  in  a narrow  street  ten  feet  wide  only,  winding 
up  a hill,  and  it  was  full  this  morning  of  sheep  as  close  as 
they  could  pack,  at  least  a thousand,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,^ — tinkle  tinkle,  bleat  bleat,  for  a quarter  of  an  hour. 


This  letter  is  all  upside  down,  and  this  first  page  written 
last  ; for  I didn’t  like  sometliing  I had  written  about  myself 
last  night  when  I was  tired,  and  have  torn  it  off. 


m PAiiADisi':. 


Assisi,  Sacristan’s  Cell, 
25(h  June. 


22 


PE^TEEITA. 


of  it,  in  direction  to  Mr.  Burgess,  presented  some  notable 
points  of  correspondence  ^?ith  it,  I thought  it  well  he  should 
engrave  them  together,  as  they  stood. 


Ifjifi  itK  Or,} 

aiad«  wl»o  Vl\irr^V«t 

i*ea  .sen^  ^ 


UA-^  tiA.erzXsU-&-^^  ^ Ctt 


My  mother  had,  as  she  afterward  told  me,  solemnly  de- 
voted me  to  God  ” before  I was  born  ; in  imitation  of  Hannah. 

Very  good  women  are  remarkably  apt  to  make  away  with 
their  children  prematurely,  in  this  manner : the  real  mean- 
ing of  the  pious  act  being,  that,  as  the  sons  of  Zebedee  are 
not  (or  at  least  they  hope  not),  to  sit  on  the  right  and  left  of 
Christ,  in  His  kingdom,  their  own  sons  may  perhaps,  they 
think,  in  time  be  advanced  to  that  respectable  position  in 
eternal  life  ; especially  if  they  ask  Christ  very  humbly  for  it 
every  day  ; and  they  always  forget  in  the  most  naive  way 
that  the  position  is  not  His  to  give  ! 

“ Devoting  me  to  God,'*’  meant,  as  far  as  my  mother  knew 
herself  what  she  meant,  that  she  would  try  to  send  me  to 
college,  and  make  a clergyman  of  me  : and  I was  accordingly 
bred  for  “ the  Church.”  My  father,  who — rest  be  to  his  soul 
— had  the  exceedingly  bad  habit  of  yielding  to  my  mother  in 
large  things  and  taking  his  own  way  in  little  ones,  allowed 
me,  without  saying  a word,  to  be  thus  withdrawn  from  the 
sherry  trade  as  an  unclean  thing  ; not  without  some  pardon- 


THE  SPlilNQB  OF  WANDER 


23 


able  participation  in  my  mother’s  ultimate  ^iews  for  me. 
For,  many  and  many  a year  afterward,  I remember,  wdiile  he 
was  speaking  to  one  of  our  artist  friends,  who  admired 
Eaphael,  and  greatly  regretted  my  endeavors  to  interfere 
v>^ith  that  popular  taste, — while  my  father  and  he  were  con- 
doling with  each  other  on  my  having  been  impudent  enough 
to  think  I could  tell  the  public  about  Turner  and  Eaphael, — = 
instead  of  contenting  myself,  as  I ought,  with  explaining  the 
way  of  their  souls’  salvation  to  them — and  what  an  amiable 
clergyman  was  lost  in  me, — “ Yes,”  said  my  father,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes — (true  and  tender  tears,  as  ever  father  shed,)  “ he 
would  have  been  a Bishop.” 

Luckily  for  me,  my  mother,  under  these  distinct  impres- 
sions of  her  own  duty,  and  with  such  latent  hopes  of  my 
future  eminence,  took  me  very  early  to  church ; — v/here,  in 
spite  of  my  quiet  habits,  and  my  mother’s  golden  vinaigrette, 
alw’ays  indulged  to  me  there,  and  there  only,  wdth  its  lid  un- 
clasped that  I might  see  the  wreathed  open  pattern  above  the 
sponge,  I found  the  bottom  of  the  pew  so  extremely  dull  a 
place  to  keep  quiet  in,  (my  best  story-books  being  also 
taken  away  from  me  in  the  morning,)  that,  as  I have  some- 
where said  before,  the  horror  of  Sunday  used  even  to  cast  its 
prescient  gloom  as  far  back  in  the  week  as  Friday — and  all 
the  gloiy  of  Monday,  with  church  seven  days  removed  again, 
was  no  equivalent  for  it. 

Notwithstanding,  I arrived  at  some  abstract  in  my  own 
mind  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Howell’s  sermons  ; and  occasionally,  in 
imitation  of  him,  preached  a sermon  at  homo  over  the  red 
sofa  cushions ; — this  performance  being  always  called  for  by 
my  mother’s  dearest  friends,  as  the  great  accomplishment  of 
my  childhood.  The  sermon  was,  I believe,  some  eleven 
words  long  ; — very  exemplary,  it  seems  to  me,  in  that  respect 
— and  I still  think  must  have  been  the  purest  gospel,  for 
I know  it  began  with,  “ People,  be  good.” 

We  seldom  had  company,  even  on  week  days  ; and  I was 
never  allowed  to  come  down  to  dessert,  until  much  later  in 
life — when  I was  able  to  crack  nuts  neatl^a  I was  then  per- 
mitted to  come  down  to  crack  other  people’s  nuts  for  them 


24: 


PBuETERITA. 


— (I  Lope  they  liked  tLe  ministration) — but  never  to  Lave 
any  myself ; nor  anytLing  else  of  dainty  kind,  eitLer  tLen  or 
at  otLer  times.  Once,  at  Hunter  Street,  I recollect  my 
motLer  giving  me  tliree  raisins,  in  tLe  forenoon,  out  of  tLe 
store  cabinet ; and  I remember  perfectly  tLe  first  time  I 
tasted  custard,  in  our  lodgings  in  Norfolk  Street — wLere  -we 
Lad  gone  wLile  the  Louse  was  being  painted,  or  cleaned,  or 
sometLing.  My  fatber  was  dining  in  tLe  front  room,  and 
did  not  finisL  Lis  custard ; and  my  motLer  brougLt  me  the 
bottom  of  it  into  tlie  back  room. 

But  for  tLe  reader’s  better  understanding  of  sucL  furtLer 
progress  of  my  poor  little  life  as  I may  trespass  on  Lis 
patience  in  describing,  it  is  now  needful  tliat  I give  some  ac- 
count of  my  father’s  mercantile  position  in  London. 

TLe  firm  of  wLicL  Le  was  Lead  partner  may  be  yet  remem- 
bered by  some  of  tLe  older  city  Louses,  as  carrying  on  tLeir 
business  in  a small  counting-Louse  on  tLe  first  floor  of  narrow 
premises,  in  as  narrow  a tliorougLfare  of  East  London, 
— Billiter  Street,  the  principal  traverse  from  LeadenLall 
Street  into  FencLurcL  Street. 

TLe  names  of  tlie  three  partners  were  given  in  full  on  their 
brass  plate  under  the  counting-Louse  bell, — Buskin,  Telford, 
& Homecq. 

Mr.  Domecq’s  name  should  Lave  been  the  first,  by  rights, 
for  ray  father  and  Mr.  Telford  were  only  Lis  agents.  He  was 
the  solo  proprietor  of  the  estate  which  was  the  main  capital 
of  the  firm, — the  vineyard  of  MacLarnudo,  the  most  precious 
hillside,  for  growth  of  white  wine,  in  the  Spanish  peninsula. 
The  quality  of  the  Macharnudo  vintage  essentially  fixed  the 
standard  of  Xeres  “sack,”  or  “dry,” — secco  — sLerris,  or 
sherry,  from  the  days  of  Henry  the  Fifth  to  our  own  ; — the 
unalterable  and  unrivalled  chalk-marl  of  it  putting  a strength 
into  the  grape  v/LicL  age  can  only  enrich  and  darken, — never 
impair. 

Mr.  Peter  Homecq  was,  I believe,  Spanish  born ; and  partly 
French,  partly  English  bred ; a man  of  strictest  honor,  and 
kindly  disposition  ; Low  descended,  I do  not  know  ; Low  Le 
became  possessor  of  Lis  vineyard,  I do  not  know ; what  posi- 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 


25 


tion  lie  held,  when  young,  in  the  firm  of  Gordon,  Murphy, 
& Compan}",  I do  not  know  ; but  in  their  house  he  watched 
their  head  clerk,  my  father,  during  his  nine  years  of  duty, 
and  when  the  house  broke  up,  asked  him  to  be  his  own  agent 
in  England.  My  father  saw  that  he  could  folly  trust  Mr. 
Domecq’s  honor,  and  feeling  ; — but  not  so  fully  either  his 
sense,  or  his  industry  ; and  insisted,  though  taking  only  his 
agent’s  commission,  on  being  both  nominally,  and  practical!}*, 
the  head-partner  of  the  firm. 

Mr.  Domecq  lived  chiefly  in  Paris ; rarely  visiting  his 
Spanish  estate,  but  having  perfect  knowledge  of  the  proper 
processes  of  its  cultivation,  and  authority  over  its  laborers 
almost  like  a chief ’s  over  his  clan.  He  kept  the  wines  at  the 
highest  possible  standard  ; and  allowed  my  father  to  manage 
all  matters  concerning  their  sale,  as  he  thought  best.  The 
second  partner,  Mr.  Henry  Telford,  brought  into  the  business 
what  capital  was  necessary  for  its  London  branch.  The 
premises  in  Billiter  Street  belonged  to  him  ; and  he  had  a 
pleasant  country  house  at  Widmore,  near  Bromley  ; a quite 
far-away  Kentish  village  in  those  days. 

He  was  a perfect  type  of  an  English  country  gentleman  of 
moderate  fortune  ; unmarried,  living  wnth  three  unmarried 
sisters, — who,  in  the  refinement  of  their  highly  educated,  un- 
pretending, benevolent,  and  felicitous  lives,  remain  in  my 
memory  more  like  the  figures  in  a beautiful  story  than  real- 
ities. Neither  in  story,  nor  in  reality,  have  I ever  again  heard 
of,  or  seen,  anything  like  Mr.  Henry  Telford  ; — so  gentle,  so 
humble,  so  affectionate,  so  clear  in  common  sense,  so  fond  of 
horses, — and  so  entirely  incapable  of  doing,  thinking,  or  saying, 
anything  that  had  the  slightest  taint  in  it  of  the  race-course  or 
the  stable. 

Yet  I believe  he  never  missed  any  great  race  ; passed 
the  greater  part  of  his  life  on  horseback  ; and  hunted  during 
the  whole  Leicestershire  season  ; but  never  made  a bet,  never 
had  a serious  fall,  and  never  hurt  a horse.  Between  him  and 
my  father  there  was  absolute  confidence,  and  the  utmost 
friendship  that  could  exist  without  community  of  pursuit. 
My  father  was  greatly  proud  of  Mr.  Telford’s  standing  among 


26 


PR^TEBITA. 


the  country  gentlemen ; and  Mr.  Telford  was  affectionately 
respectful  to  my  father’s  steady  industry  and  infallible  com- 
mercial instinct.  Mr.  Telford’s  actual  part  in  the  conduct  of 
the  business  was  limited  to  attendance  in  the  counting-house 
during  two  months  at  Midsummer,  when  my  father  took  his 
holiday,  and  sometimes  for  a month  at  the  beginning  of  the 
3mar,  Avhen  he  travelled  for  orders.  At  these  times  Mr.  Tel- 
ford rode  into  London  daily  from  Widmore,  signed  what 
letters  and  bills  needed  signature,  read  the  papers,  and  rode 
home  again  ; any  matters  needing  deliberation  were  referred 
to  my  father,  or  awaited  his  return.  All  the  family  at  Wid- 
more would  have  been  limitlessly  kind  to  my  mother  and  me, 
if  the}"  had  been  permitted  any  opportunity  ; but  my  mother 
always  felt,  in  cultivated  society, — and  was  too  proud  to  feel 
with  patience, — the  defects  of  her  own  early  education  ; and 
therefore  (which  was  the  true  and  fatal  sign  of  such  defect) 
never  familiarly  visited  any  one  whom  she  did  not  feel  to  be, 
in  some  sort,  her  inferior. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Telford  had  a singularly  important  influ- 
ence in  my  education.  By,  I believe,  his  sister’s  advice,  he 
gave  me,  as  soon  as  it  was  published,  the  illustrated  edition 
of  Eogers’  “Italy.”  This  book  was  the  first  means  I had  of 
looking  carefully  at  Turner’s  work  : and  I might,  not  without 
some  appearance  of  reason,  attribute  to  the  gift  the  entire 
direction  of  my  life’s  energies.  But  it  is  the  great  error  of 
thoughtless  biographers  to  attribute  to  the  accident  which 
introduces  some  new  phase  of  character,  all  the  circumstances 
of  character  which  gave  the  accident  importance.  The  essen- 
tial point  to  be  noted,  and  accounted  for,  was  that  I could 
understand  Turner’s  work  when  I saw  it; — not  by  what 
chance,  or  in  what  year,  it  was  first  seen.  Poor  Mr.  Telford, 
nevertheless,  was  always  held  by  papa  and  mamma  primarily 
responsible  for  my  Turner  insanities. 

In  a more  direct,  though  less  intended  way,  his  help  to  me 
was  important.  For,  before  my  father  thought  it  right  to  hire 
a carriage  for  the  above-mentioned  Midsummer  holiday,  Mr. 
Telford  always  lent  us  his  own  travelling  chariot. 

Now  the  old  English  chariot  is  the  most  luxurious  of  travel- 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 


27 


ling  carriages,  for  two  persons,  or  even  for  two  persons  and 
so  much  of  a third  personage  as  I possessed  at  three  years 
old.  The  one  in  question  was  hung  high,  so  that  we  could  see 
well  over  stone  dykes  and  average  hedges  out  of  it ; such  ele- 
vation being  attained  by  the  old-fashioned  folding-steps,  with 
a lovel}^  padded  cushion  fitting  into  the  recess  of  the  door, — 
steps  which  it  was  one  of  my  chief  travelling  delights  to  see 
the  hostlers  fold  up  and  dovm  ; though  my  delight  was  pain- 
fully alloyed  by  envious  ambition  to  be  allowed  to  do  it 
myself : — but  I never  was, — lest  I should  pinch  my  fingers. 

The  “ dickey,” — (to  think  that  I should  never  till  this 
moment  have  asked  mj'self  the  derivation  of  that  word,  and 
now  be  unable  to  get  at  it !) — being  typically,  that  com- 
manding seat  in  her  Majesty’s  mail,  occupied  by  the  Guard  ; 
and  classical,  even  in  modern  literature,  as  the  scene  of  Mr. 
Bob  Sawyer’s  arrangements  with  Sam, — was  thrown  far  back 
in  Mr.  Telford’s  chariot,  so  as  to  give  perfectly  comfortable 
room  for  the  legs  (if  one  chose  to  travel  outside  on  fine 
da}'S),  and  to  afford  beneath  it  spacious  area  to  the  boot, 
a storehouse  of  rearward  miscellaneous  luggage.  Over  which 
• — with  all  the  rest  of  for\vard  and  superficial  luggage — my 
nurse  Anne  presided,  both  as  guard  and  packer  ; unrivalled, 
she,  in  the  flatness  and  precision  of  her  in-laying  of  dresses, 
as  in  turning  of  pancakes  ; the  fine  precision,  observe,  mean- 
ing also  the  easy  wit  and  invention  of  her  art ; for,  no  more 
in  packing  a trunk  than  commanding  a campaign,  is  preci- 
sion possible  without  foresight. 

Among  the  people  whom  one  must  miss  out  of  one’s  life, 
dead,  or  worse  than  dead,  by  the  time  one  is  past  fifty,  I can 
only  say  for  my  own  part,  that  the  one  I practically  and  truly 
miss  most,  next  to  father  and  mother,  (and  putting  losses  of 
imaginary  good  out  of  the  question,)  is  this  Anne,  my  father’s 
nurse,  and  mine.  She  was  one  of  our  ‘ many,’*  (our  many 
being  ahvays  but  few,)  and  from  her  girlhood  to  her  old  age, 
the  entire  ability  of  her  life  was  given  to  serving  us.  She  had 
a natural  gift  and  speciality  for  doing  disagreeable  things ; 


* Formerly  “ Meinie,”  ^‘attendant  company.” 


28 


PR^TEBITA. 


above  all,  tlie  service  of  a sick  room  ; so  tliat  sbe  was  never 
quite  in  her  glory  unless  some  of  us  were  ill.  She  had  also 
some  parallel  speciality  for  saying  disagreeable  things  ; and 
might  be  relied  upon  to  give  the  extremely  darkest  view  of 
any  subject,  before  proceeding  to  ameliorative  action  upon  it. 
And  she  had  a very  creditable  and  republican  aversion  to  do- 
ing immediately,  or  in  set  terms,  as  she  was  bid  ; so  that  when 
my  mother  and  she  got  old  together,  and  my  mother  became 
very  imperative  and  particular  about  having  her  teacup  set  on 
one  side  of  her  little  round  table,  Anne  would  observantly^  and 
punctiliously  put  it  always  on  the  other  ; wdiich  caused  my 
mother  to  state  to  me,  every  morning  after  breakfast,  gravely, 
that,  if  ever  a woman  in  this  world  was  possessed  by  the  Devil, 
Anne  was  that  woman.  But  in  spite  of  these  momentary  and 
petulant  aspirations  to  liberality  and  independence  of  char- 
acter, poor  Anne  remained  very  servile  in  soul  all  her  days ; 
and  was  altogether  occupied,  from  the  age  of  fifteen  to  seventy- 
two,  in  doing  other  people’s  wills  instead  of  her  own,  and 
seeking  other  people’s  good  instead  of  her  own  : nor  did  I 
ever  hear  on  any  occasion  of  her  doing  harm  to  a human 
being,  except  by  saving  two  hundred  and  some  odd  pounds 
for  her  relations ; in  consequence  of  which,  some  of  them, 
after  her  funeral,  did  not  speak  to  the  rest  for  several 
months. 

The  dickey  then  aforesaid,  being  indispensable  for  our  guard  . 
Anne,  was  made  wide  enough  for  two,  that  my  father  might 
go  outside  also  Avhen  the  scenery  and  day  were  fine.  The  en- 
tire equipage  was  not  a light  one  of  its  kind  ; but,  the  lug- 
gage being  carefully  limited,  went  gayly  behind  good  horses 
on  the  then  perfectly  smooth  mail  roads  ; and  posting,  in 
those  days,  being  universal,  so  that  at  the  leading  inns  in 
every  country  town,  the  cry  “ Horses  out ! ” down  the  yard, 
as  one  drove  up,  was  answered,  often  instantly,  always  within 
five  minutes,  by  the  merry  trot  through  the  archway  of  the 
booted  and  bright-jacketed  rider,  with  his  caparisoned  pair, 
— there  was  no  driver’s  seat  in  front : and  the  four  large, 
admirably  fitting  and  sliding  wdndows,  admitting  no  drop  of 
rain  when  they  were  up,  and  never  sticking  as  they  were  let 


THE  SPRINGS  OF  WANDEL. 


29 


clown,  formed  one  large  moving  oriel,  out  of  which  one  saw 
the  country  round,  to  the  full  half  of  the  horizon.  My  own 
prospect  was  more  extended  still,  for  my  seat  Avas  the  little 
box  containing  my  clothes,  strongly  made,  with  a cushion  on 
one  end  of  it  ; set  upright  in  front  (and  well  forward),  be- 
tween my  father  and  mother.  I was  thus  not  the  least  in 
their  way,  and  my  horizon  of  sight  the  widest  possible. 
When  no  object  of  particular  interest  presented  itself,  I 
trotted,  keeping  time  with  tlie  post-boy  on  my  trunk  cushion 
for  a saddle,  and  whipped  my  father’s  legs  for  horses ; at 
first  theoretically  only,  with  dexterous  motion  of  wrist  ; but 
ultimately  in  a cjuito  practical  and  efficient  manner,  m}’’  father 
having  jiresented  me  with  a silver-mounted  postillion’s  whip. 

The  Midsummer  holiday,  for  better  enjoyment  of  which  Mr. 
Telford  provided  us  with  these  luxuries,  began  usually  on  the 
fifteenth  of  May,  or  thereabouts; — my  father’s  birthday  was 
the  tenth ; on  that  day  I was  always  allowed  to  gather  the 
gooseberries  for  his  first  gooseberry  pie  of  the  year,  from  the 
tree  between  the  buttresses  on  the  north  wall  of  the  Herne 
Hill  garden  ; so  that  we  could  not  leave  before  that  festa. 
The  holiday  itself  consisted  in  a tour  for  orders  through  half 
the  English  counties  ; and  a visit  (if  the  counties  lay  north- 
ward) to  my  aunt  in  Scotland. 

Tlie  mode  of  journeying  was  as  fixed  as  that  of  our  home 
life.  We  went  from  forty  to  fifty  miles  a day,  starting  always 
early  enough  in  the  morning  to  arrive  comfortably  to  four- 
o’clock  dinner.  Generally,  therefore,  getting  off  at  six  o’clock, 
a stage  or  two  were  done  before  breakfast,  with  the  dew  on 
the  grass,  and  first  scent  from  the  hawthorns  ; if  in  the  course 
of  the  midday  drive  there  were  any  gentleman’s  house  to  be 
seen, — or,  better  still,  a lord’s — or,  best  of  all,  a duke’s, — my 
father  baited  the  horses,  and  took  my  mother  and  me  rever- 
ently through  the  state  rooms  ; always  speaking  a little  under 
our  breath  to  the  housekeeper,  major  domo,  or  other  authority 
in  charge  ; and  gleaning  worshipfully  what  fragmentary  illus- 
trations of  the  history  and  domestic  ways  of  the  family  might 
fall  from  their  lips. 

In  analyzing  above,  page  16,  the  effect  on  my  mind  of  all 


30 


PB^TERITA, 


tliis,  I have  perhaps  a little  antedated  the  supposed  resultant 
impression  that  it  was  probably  happier  to  live  in  a small 
house  than  a large  one.  Bat  assuredly,  while  I never  to  this 
day  pass  a lattice-windowed  cottage  without  wishing  to  be  its 
cottager,  I never  yet  saw  the  castle  which  I envied  to  its  lord ; 
and  although  in  the  course  of  these  many  worshipful  pilgrim- 
ages I gathered  curiously  extensive  knov/ledge,  both  of  art  and 
natural  scenery,  afterward  infinitely  useful,  it  is  evident  to 
me  in  retrospect  that  my  own  character  and  affections  were 
little  altered  by  them  ; and  that  the  personal  feeling  and 
native  instinct  of  me  had  been  fastened,  irrevocably,  long 
before,  to  things  modest,  humble,  and  pure  in  peace,  under 
the  low  red  roofs  of  Croydon,  and  by  the  cress-set  rivulets  in 
which  the  sand  danced  and  minnows  darted  above  the  Springs 
of  Wandel. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

HEENE-HILL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 

When  I was  about  four  years  old  my  father  found  himself 
able  to  buy  the  lease  of  a house  on  Herne  Hill,  a rustic  emi- 
nence four  miles  south  of  the  “ Standard  in  Cornhill  ; ” of 
which  the  leafy  seclusion  remains,  in  all  essential  points  of 
character,  unchanged  to  this  day  : certain  Gothic  splendors^ 
lately  indulged  in  by  our  wealthier  neighbors,  being  the  only 
serious  innovations  ; and  these  are  so  graciously  concealed  by 
the  fine  trees  of  their  grounds,  that  the  passing  viator  remains 
unappalled  by  them  ; and  I can  still  walk  up  and  down  the 
piece  of  road  between  the  Fox  tavern  and  the  Herne  Hill  sta- 
tion, imagining  myself  four  years  old. 

Our  house  was  the  northernmost  of  a group  which  stand 
accurately  on  the  top  or  dome  of  the  hill,  where  the  ground  is 
for  a small  space  level,  as  the  snows  are,  (I  understand,)  on 
the  dome  of  Mont  Blanc  ; presently  failing,  however,  in  wdiat 
may  be,  in  the  London  clay  formation,  considered  a precipi- 
tous slope,  to  our  valley  of  Chamouni  (or  of  Dulwich)  on  the 


HERNE-HILL  ALMOND  BL0880M8. 


31 


east ; and  with  a softer  descent  into  Cold  Harbour  Lane^'  on 
the  west : on  the  south,  no  less  beautifully  declining  to  the 
dale  of  the  Effra,  (doubtless  shortened  from  Effrena,  signifying 
tbe  “Unbridled”  river  ; recentl}^,  I regret  to  say,  bricked  over 
for  the  convenience  of  Mr.  BifSn,  chemist,  and  others) ; while 
on  the  north,  prolonged  indeed  with  slight  depression  some 
half  mile  or  so,  and  receiving,  in  the  parish  of  Lambeth,  the 
chivalric  title  of  “ Champion  Hill,”  it  plunges  down  at  last  to 
efface  itself  in  the  plains  of  Peckham,  and  the  rural  barbarism 
of  Goose  Green. 

The  group,  of  which  our  house  was  the  quarter,  consisted 
of  two  precisely  similar  partner-couples  of  houses,  gardens 
and  all  to  match  ; still  the  two  highest  blocks  of  buildings 
seen  from  Norwood  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  ; so  that  the 
house  itself,  three-storied,  with  garrets  above,  commanded, 
in  those  comparatively  smokeless  days,  a very  notable  view 
from  its  garret  windows,  of  the  Norwood  hills  on  one  side, 
and  the  winter  sunrise  over  them ; and  of  the  valley  of  the 
Thames  on  the  other,  with  Windsor  telescopically  clear  in  the 
distance,  and  Harrow,  conspicuous  always  in  fine  weather  to 
open  vision  against  the  summer  sunset.  It  had  front  and 
back  garden  in  sufficient  proportion  to  its  size ; the  front, 
richly  set  with  old  evergreens,  and  well-grown  lilac  and  la- 
burnum ; the  back,  seventy  yards  long  by  twenty  wide,  re- 
nowned over  all  the  hill  for  its  pears  and  apples,  which  had 
been  chosen  with  extreme  care  by  our  predecessor,  (shame- 
on  me  to  forget  the  name  of  a man  to  whom  I owe  so  much !) 
— and  possessing  also  a strong  old  mulberry  tree,  a tall  white- 
heart  cherry  tree,  a black  Kentish  one,  and  an  almost  un- 
broken hedge,  all  round,  of  alternate  gooseberry  and  currant 
bush  ; decked,  in  due  season,  (for  the  ground  was  wholly 
beneficent,)  with  magical  splendor  of  abundant  fruit : fresh 
green,  soft  amber,  and  rough-bristled  crimson  bending  the 
spinous  branches  ; clustered  pearl  and  pendant  ruby  joyfully 
discoverable  under  the  large  leaves  that  looked  like  vine. 


* Said  in  tlie  History  of  Croydon  to  be  a name  wbicli  lias  long  puzzled 
antiquaries,  and  nearly  always  found  near  Roman  military  stations. 


rRMTERITA. 


The  differences  of  primal  importance  which  I observed  be- 
tween the  nature  of  this  garden,  and  that  of  Eden,  as  I had 
imagined  it,  were,  that,  in  this  one,  all  the  fruit  was  for- 
bidden ; and  there  were  no  companionable  beasts : in  other 
respects  the  little  domain  answered  every  purpose  of  Paradise 
to  me  ; and  the  climate,  in  that  cycle  of  our  years,  allowed 
me  to  pass  most  of  my  life  in  it.  My  mother  never  gave  me 
more  to  learn  than  she  knew  I could  easily  get  learnt,  if  I set 
myself  honestly  to  work,  by  twelve  o’clock.  She  never  allowed 
anything  to  disturb  me  when  my  task  was  set ; if  it  was  not 
said  rightly  by  twelve  o’clock,  I was  kept  in  till  I knew  it,  and 
in  general,  even  when  Latin  Grammar  came  to  supplement 
the  Psalms,  I was  my  own  master  for  at  least  an  hour  before 
half-past  one  dinner,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

My  mother,  herself  finding  her  chief  personal  pleasure  in 
her  flowers,  was  often  planting  or  pruning  beside  me,  at  least 
if  I chose  to  stay  beside  her,  I never  thought  of  doing  any- 
thing behind  her  back  which  I would  not  have  done  before 
her  face  ; and  her  presence  was  therefore  no  restraint  to  me  ; 
but,  also,  no  particular  .pleasure,  for,  from  having  always  been 
left  so  much  alone,  I had  generally  my  own  little  affairs  to  see 
after  ; and,  on  the  whole,  by  the  time  I was  seven  years  old,  was 
already  getting  too  independent,  mentally,  even  of  my  father 
and  mother ; and,  having  nobody  else  to  be  dependent  upon, 
began  to  lead  a very  small,  perky,  contented,  conceited,  Cock- 
•Eobinson-Crusoe  sort  of  life,  in  the  central  point  which  it 
appeared  to  me,  (as  it  must  naturally  appear  to  geometrical 
animals,)  that  I occupied  in  the  universe. 

This  was  partly  the  fault  of  my  father’s  modesty  ; and  part- 
ly of  his  pride.  He  had  so  much  more  confidence  in  my 
mother’s  judgment  as  to  such  matters  than  in  his  own,  that 
he  never  ventured  even  to  help,  much  less  to  cross  her,  in  the 
conduct  of  my  education  ; on  the  other  hand,  in  the  fixed 
purpose  of  making  an  ecclesiastical  gentleman  of  me,  with 
the  superfinest  of  manners,  and  access  to  the  highest  circles 
of  fleshly  and  spiritual  society,  the  visits  to  Croydon,  where 
I entirely  loved  my  aunt,  and  3"oung  baker-cousins,  became 
rarer  and  more  rare : the  society  of  our  neighbors  on  the  hill 


^ ERNE-HILL  ALMOND  BLOS>'^OMS. 


could  not  be  had  without  breaking  up  our  regular  and  sweet- 
ly selfish  manner  of  living  ; and  on  the  whole,  I had  nothing 
animate  to  care  for,  in  a childish  way,  but  myself,  some  nests 
of  ants,  wbich  the  gardener  would  never  leave  undisturbed  for 
me,  and  a sociable  bird  or  two  ; though  I never  had  the  sense 
or  perseverance  to  make  one  really  tame.  But  that  w.as  part- 
ly because,  if  ever  I managed  to  bring  one  to  be  the  least 
trustful  of  me,  the  cats  got  it. 

Under  these  circumstances,  what  powers  of  imagination  I 
possessed,  either  fastened  themselves  on  inanimate  things — ■ 
the  sky,  the  leaves,  and  pebbles,  observable  within  the  wails 
of  Eden,  or  caught  at  any  opportunity  of  flight  into  regions 
of  romance,  compatible  with  the  objective  realities  of  existence 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  within  a mile  and  a quarter  of 
Camberwell  Green. 

Herein  my  father,  happily,  though  with  no  definite  inten- 
tion other  than  of  pleasing  me,  when  he  found  he  could  do  so 
without  infringing  any  of  my  mother’s  rules,  became  my 
guide.  I was  particularly  fond  of  watching  him  shave  ; and 
was  always  allowed  to  come  into  his  room  in  the  morning 
(under  the  one  in  which  I am  now  writing),  to  be  the  motion- 
less witness  of  that  operation.  Over  his  dressing-table  hung 
one  of  his  own  water-color  drawings,  made  under  the  teaching 
of  the  elder  Nasmyth.  I believe,  at  the  High  School  of  Edin- 
burgh. It  was  done  in  the  early  manner  of  tinting,  which, 
just  about  the  time  when  my  father  was  at  the  High  School, 
Dr.  Munro  W'as  teaching  Turner  ; namely,  in  grey  under-tints 
of  Prussian  blue  and  British  ink,  washed  with  warm  color 
afterward  on  the  lights.  It  represented  Conway  Castle,  with 
its  Frith,  and,  in  the  foreground,  a cottage,  a fisherman,  and 
a boat  at  the  water’s  edge."^ 

When  my  father  had  finished  shaving,  he  always  told  me  a 
story  about  this  picture.  The  custom  began  Muthout  any 
initial  purpose  of  his,  in  consequence  of  my  troublesome  curi- 
osity whether  the  fisherman  lived  in  the  cottage,  and  where 


* This  drawing  is  still  over  the  chimney-piece  of  my  bedroom  at 
Brantwood. 


3 


34 


PR^TERITA. 


he  was  going  to  in  the  boat.  It  being  settled,  for  peace, 
sake,  that  he  did  live  in  the  cottage,  and  was  going  in  the 
boat  to  fish  near  the  castle,  the  plot  of  the  drama  afterward 
gradually  thickened  ; and  became,  I believe,  involved  with 
that  of  the  tragedy  of  Douglas,  and  of  the  Castle  Spectre,  in 
both  of  which  pieces  my  father  had  performed  in  private 
theatricals,  before  my  mother,  and  a select  Edinburgh  audi- 
ence, when  he  was  a boy  of  sixteen,  and  she,  at  grave  twenty,  a 
model  housekeeper,  and  very  scornful  and  religiously  sus- 
picious of  theatricals.  But  she  was  never  weary  of  telling  me, 
in  later  years,  how  beautiful  my  father  looked  in  his  High- 
land dress,  with  the  high  black  feathers. 

In  the  afternoons,  when  my  father  returned  (always  punc- 
tuail}")  from  his  business,  he  dined,  at  half-past  four,  in  the 
front  parlor,  my  mother  sitting  beside  him  to  hear  the  events  of 
the  day,  and  give  counsel  and  encouragement  with  respect  to 
the  same  ; — chiefly  the  last,  for  my  father  was  apt  to  be  vexed  if 
orders  for  sherry  fell  the  least  short  of  their  due  standard, 
even  for  a day  or  two.  I was  never  present  at  this  time,  how- 
ever, and  only  avouch  what  I relate  by  hearsay  and  probable 
conjecture  ; for  between  four  and  six  it  would  have  been  a 
grave  misdemeanor  in  me  if  I so  much  as  approached  the 
parlor  door.  After  that,  in  summer  time,  we  were  all  in  the 
garden  as  long  as  the  day  lasted  ; tea  under  the  white-heart 
cherry  tree  ; or  in  winter  and  rough  weather,  at  six  o’clock  in 
the  drawing-room, — I having  my  cup  of  milk,  and  slice  of  bread- 
and-butter,  in  a little  recess,  with  a table  in  front  of  it,  wholly 
sacred  to  me  ; and  in  which  I remained  in  the  evenings  as  an 
Idol  in  a niche,  while  my  mother  knitted,  and  my  father  read 
to  her, — and  to  me,  so  far  as  I chose  to  listen. 

The  series  of  the  Waverley  novels,  then  drawing  toward  its 
close,  was  still  the  chief  source  of  delight  in  all  households 
caring  for  literature  ; and  I can  no  more  recollect  the  time 
when  I did  not  know  them  than  when  I did  not  know  the 
Bible  ; but  I have  still  a vivid  remembrance  of  my  father’s 
intense  expression  of  sorrow  mixed  with  scorn,  as  he  threw 
down  “Count  Robert  of  Paris,”  after  reading  three  or  four 
pages  ; and  knew  that  the  life  of  Scott  was  ended : the  scorn 


HEBNE-IIILL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 


being  a very  complex  and  bitter  feeling  in  him, — parti}',  in- 
deed, of  the  book  itself,  but  chiefly  of  the  wretches  who  were 
tormenting  and  selling  the  wrecked  intellect,  and  not  a little, 
deep  down,  of  the  subtle  dishonesty  which  had  essentially 
caused  the  ruin.  My  father  never  could  forgive  Scott  his 
concealment  of  the  Ballantyne  partnershij^. 

Such  being  the  salutary  pleasures  of  Herne  Hill,  I have  next 
with  deeper  gratitude  to  chronicle  what  I owed  to  my  mother 
for  the  resolutely  consistent  lessons  which  so  exercised  me  in 
the  Scriptures  as  to  make  every  word  of  them  familiar  to  my 
ear  in  habitual  music, — ^yet  in  that  familiarity  reverenced,  as 
transcending  all  thought,  and  ordaining  all  conduct.^' 

This  she  effected,  not  by  her  own  sayings  or  personal 
authority  ; but  simply  by  compelling  me  to  read  the  book 
thoroughly,  for  myself.  As  soon  as  I was  able  to  read  with 
fluenc}^,  she  began  a course  of  Bible  work  with  me,  which 
never  ceased  till  I went  to  Oxford.  She  read  alternate  verses 
W'ith  me,  watching,  at  first,  every  intonation  of  my  voice,  and 
correcting  the  false  ones,  till  she  made  me  understand  the 
verse,  if  within  my  reach,  rightly,  and  energetically.  It 
might  be  beyond  me  altogether  ; that  she  did  not  care  about ; 
but  she  made  sure  that  as  soon  as  I got  hold  of  it  at  all,  I 
should  get  hold  of  it  by  tlie  right  end. 

In  this  way  she  began  with  the  first  verse  of  Genesis,  and 
went  straight  through,  to  the  last  verse  of  the  Apocalypse  ; 
hard  names,  numbers,  Levitical  law,  and  all ; and  began  again 
at  Genesis  the  next  day.  If  a name  was  hard,  the  better  the 
exercise  in  pronunciation,— if  a chapter  was  tiresome,  the 
better  lesson  in  patience, — if  loathsome,  the  better  lesson  in 
faith  that  there  was  some  use  in  its  being  so  outspoken.  Af- 
ter our  chapters,  (from  two  to  three  a day,  according  to  their 
length,  the  first  thing  after  breakfast,  and  no  interruption 
from  servants  allowed, — none  from  visitors,  who  either  joined 
in  the  reading  or  had  to  stay  upstairs, — and  none  from  any 
visitings  or  excursions,  except  real  travelling,)  I had  to  learn 
a few  verses  by  heart,  or  repeat,  to  make  sure  I had  not  lost. 


* Compare  tlie  52d  paragrapli  of  chapter  iii.  of  Bible  of  Amiens. 


36 


PR^TERITA. 


something  of  what  was  already  known  ; and,  with  the  chap- 
ters thus  gradually  possessed  from  the  first  word  to  the  last,  I 
had  to  learn  the  whole  bod}'^  of  the  fine  old  Scottish  para- 
phrases, which  are  good,  melodious,  and  forceful  verse  ; and 
to  which,  together  with  the  Bible  itself,  I owe  the  first  culti- 
vation of  my  ear  in  sound. 

It  is  strange  that  of  all  the  pieces  of  the  Bible  which  my 
mother  thus  taught  me,  that  which  cost  me  most  to  learn,  and 
which  was,  to  my  child’s  mind,  chiefly  repulsive — the  119th 
Psalm — has  now  become  of  all  the  most  precious  to  me,  in  its 
overflowing  and  glorious  passion  of  love  for  the  Law  of  God, 
in  opposition  to  the  abuse  of  it  by  modern  preachers  of  what 
they  imagine  to  be  His  gospel. 

But  it  is  only  by  deliberate  effort  that  I recall  the  long 
morning  hours  of  toil,  as  regular  as  sunrise, — toil  on  both 
sides  equal — by  which,  year  after  year,  my  mother  forced  me  to 
learn  these  paraphrases,  and  chapters,  (the  eighth  of  1st  Kings 
being  one — try  it,  good  reader,  in  a leisure  hour !)  allov, dng 
not  so  much  as  a syllable  to  be  missed  or  misplaced  ; while 
every  sentence  was  required  to  be  said  over  and  over  again 
till  she  was  satisfied  with  the  accent  of  it.  I recollect  a 
struggle  between  us  of  about  three  weeks,  concerning  the 
accent  of  the  “of  ” in  the  lines 

“ Shall  any  following  spring  revive 
The  ashes  of  the  urn  ?” — 

I insisting,  partly  in  childish  obstinacy,  and  partly  in  true 
instinct  for  rhythm,  (being  wholly  careless  on  the  subject  both 
of  urns  and  their  contents,)  on  reciting  it  with  an  accented  of. 
It  was  not,  I say,  till  after  three  weeks^  labor,  that  my  mother 
got  the  accent  lightened  on  the  “ of  ” and  laid  on  the  ashes,  to 
her  mind.  But  had  it  taken  three  years,  she  would  have  done 
it,  having  once  undertaken  to  do  it.  And,  assuredly,  had  she 
not  done  it, — well,  there’s  no  knowing  what  would  have 
happened  ; but  I am  very  thankful  she  did. 

I have  just  opened  my  oldest  (in  use)  Bible, — a small, 
closely,  and  very  neatly  printed  volume  it  is,  printed  in 
Edinburgh  by  Sir  D,  Hunter  Blair  and  J.  Bruce,  Printers  to 


HERNE-niLL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 


37 


the  King’s  Most  Excellent  Majesty,  in  1816.  Yellow,  now, 
with  age,  and  flexible,  but  not  unclean,  with  much  use,  except 
that  the  lower  corners  of  the  pages  at  8th  of  1st  Kings,  and 
32d  Deuteronomy,  are  worn  somewhat  thin  and  dark,  the 
learning  of  these  two  chapters  having  cost  me  much  pains. 
My  mother’s  list  of  the  chapters  with  which,  thus  learned,  she 
established  my  soul  in  life,*  has  just  fallen  out  of  it.  I will 
take  what  indulgence  the  incurious  reader  can  give  me,  for 
printing  the  list  thus  accidentally  occurrent : 


Exodus  chapters 

2 Samuel  “ 

1 Kings  “ 

Psalms  ' ** 

Proverbs  ** 

Isaiah  “ 

Matthew 

Acts  “ 

1 Corinthians  “ 
James  “ 

Revelation 


15th  and  20th. 

1st,  from  17th  verse  to  the  end. 

8th. 

23d,  32d,  90th,  91st,  103d,  112th 
119th,  139th. 

2d,  3d,  8th,  12th. 

68th. 

6th,  6th,  7th. 

26th. 

13th,  15th. 

4th. 

6th,  6th 


And  truly,  though  I have  picked  up  the  elements  of  a lit- 
tle further  knowledge — in  mathematics,  meteorology,  and  the 
like,  in  after  life, — and  owe  not  a little  to  the  teaching  of 
many  people,  this  maternal  installation  of  my  mind  in  that 
property  of  chapters,  I count  very  confidently  the  most 
precious,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  one  essential  part  of  all  my 
education. 

And  it  is  perhaps  already  time  to  mark  what  advantage  and 
mischief,  by  the  chances  of  life  up  to  seven  years  old,  had  | 
been  irrevocably  determined  forme. 


* This  expression  in  Fors  has  naturally  been  supposed  by  some 
readers  to  mean  that  my  mother  at  this  time  made  me  vitally  and 
evangelically  religious.  The  fact  was  far  otherwise.  I meant  only  that 
she  gave  me  secure  ground  for  all  future  life,  practical  or  s^uritual.  See 

the  paragraph  next  following. 


38 


PR^^TEUITA, 


I will  first  count  my  blessings  (as  a not  unwise  friend  once 
recommended  me  to  do,  continually ; whereas  I have  a bad 
trick  of  always  numbering  the  thorns  in  my  fingers  and  not 
the  bones  in  them). 

And  for  best  and  truest  beginning  of  all  blessings,  I had 
been  taught  the  perfect  meaning  of  Peace,  in  thought,  act, 
and  word. 

I never  had  heard  my  fathers  or  mother’s  voice  once  raised 
in  any  question  with  each  other ; nor  seen  an  angiy,  or  even 
slightly  hurt  or  offended,  glance  in  the  eyes  of  either.  I had 
never  heard  a servant  scolded  ; nor  even  suddenly,  passion- 
ately, or  in  any  severe  manner,  blamed.  I had  never  seen  a 
moment’s  trouble  or  disorder  in  any  household  matter ; nor 
anything  whatever  either  done  in  a hurry,  or  undone  in  due 
time.  I had  no  conception  of  such  a feeling  as  anxiety ; my 
father’s  occasional  vexation  in  the  afternoons,  when  he  had 
onty  got  an  order  for  twelve  butts,  after  expecting  one  for 
fifteen,  as  I have  just  stated,  was  never  manifested  to  me ; and 
itself  related  only  to  the  question  whether  his  name  would 
be  a step  higher  or  lower  in  the  year’s  list  of  sherry  ex- 
porters; for  he  never  spent  more  than  half  his  income,  and 
therefore  found  himself  little  incommoded  by  occasional 
variations  in  the  total  of  it.  I had  never  done  any  wrong  that 
I knew  of — beyond  occasionally  delaying  the  commitment  to 
heart  of  some  improving  sentence,  that  I might  watch  a wasp 
on  the  window  pane,  or  a bird  in  the  cherry  tree ; and  I had 
never  seen  any  grief. 

Next  to  this  quite  priceless  gift  of  Peace,  I had  received  the 
perfect  understanding  of  the  natures  of  Obedience  and  Faith. 
I obeyed  word,  or  lifted  finger,  of  father  or  mother,  simply  as 
a ship  her  helm  ; not  only  without  idea  of  resistance,  but 
receiving  the  direction  as  a part  of  my  own  life  and  force, 
a helpful  law,  as  necessary  to  me  in  every  moral  action  as  the 
law  of  gravity  in  leaping.  And  my  practice  in  Faith  was  soon 
complete : nothing  was  ever  promised  me  that  was  not  given  ; 
nothing  ever  threatened  me  that  was  not  inflicted,  and  nothing 
ever  told  me  that  was  not  true. 

Peace,  obedience,  faith  ; these  three  for  chief  good  ; next 


HERNE-EILL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 


30 


to  these,  the  habit  of  fixed  attention  with  both  eyes  and 
mind — on  which  I will  not  further  enlarge  at  this  moment, 
this  being  the  main  practical  faculty  of  my  life,  causing 
Mazzini  to  say  of  me,  in  conversation  authentically  reported, 
a year  or  two  before  his  death,  that  I had  “ the  most  analytic 
mind  in  Europe.”  An  opinion  in  which,  so  far  as  I am 
acquainted  with  Europe,  I am  myself  entirely  disposeu  co 
concur. 

Lastly,  an  extreme  perfection  in  palate  and  all  other  bodily 
senses,  given  by  the  utter  prohibition  of  cake,  wine,  comfits, 
or,  except  in  carefullest  restriction,  fruit ; and  by  fine  prepa- 
ration of  what  food  was  given  me.  Such  I esteem  the  main 
blessings  of  my  childhood  ; — next,  let  me  count  the  equally 
dominant  calamities. 

First,  that  I had  nothing  to  love. 

My  parents  were— in  a sort — visible  powers  of  nature  to 
Jie,  no  more  loved  than  the  sun  and  the  moon  : only  I should 
have  been  annoyed  and  puzzled  if  either  of  them  had  gone 
out ; (how  much,  now,  when  both  are  darkened  !) — still  less 
did  I love  God  ; not  that  I had  any  quarrel  with  Him,  or  fear 
of  Him  ; but  simply  found  what  people  told  me  was  His  ser- 
vice, disagreeable  ; and  what  people  told  me  was  His  book,  not 
entertaining.  I had  no  companions  to  quarrel  with,  neither ; 
nobody  to  assist,  and  nobody  to  thank.  Not  a servant  was 
ever  allowed  to  do  anything  for  me,  but  what  it  was  their  duty 
to  do  ; and  why  should  I have  been  grateful  to  the  cook  for 
cooking,  or  the  gardener  for  gardening, — when  the  one  dared 
not  give  me  a baked  potato  without  asking  leave,  and  the 
other  would  not  let  my  ants’  nests  alone,  because  they  made 
the  walks  untidy  ? The  evil  consequence  of  all  this  was  not, 
however,  what  might  perhaps  have  been  expected,  that  I grew 
up  selfish  or  unaffectionate  ; but  that,  when  affection  did 
come,  it  came  with  violence  utterly  rampant  and  unmanage- 
able, at  least  by  me,  who  never  before  had  anything  to  man- 
age. 

For  (second  of  chief  calamities)  I had  nothing  to  endure. 
Hanger  or  pain  of  any  kind  I knew  not : my  strength  was 
never  exercised,  my  patience  never  tried,  and  my  courage 


40 


PRMTEBITA. 


ne\er  fortified.  Not  that  I was  ever  afraid  of  anything, — • 
either  ghosts,  thunder,  or  beasts;  and  one  of  the  nearest 
approaches  to  insubordination  which  I was  ever  tempted  into 
as  a child,  was  in  passionate  effort  to  get  leave  to  play  with 
the  lion’s  cubs  in  Womb  well’s  menagerie. 

Thirdly.  I was  taught  no  precision  nor  etiquette  of  man- 
ners ; it  was  enough  if,  in  the  little  society  we  saw,  I remained 
unobtrusive,  and  replied  to  a question  without  shyness : but 
the  shyness  came  later,  and  increased  as  I grew  conscious  of  the 
rudeness  arising  from  the  want  of  social  discipline,  and  found 
it  impossible  to  acquire,  in  advanced  life,  dexterity  in  any 
bodily  exercise,  skill  in  any  pleasing  accomplishment,  or  ease 
and  tact  in  ordinary  behavior. 

Lastly,  and  chief  of  evils.  My  judgment  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  powers  of  independent  action,^  were  left  entirely 
undeveloped  ; because  the  bridle  and  blinkers  were  never 
taken  off  me.  Children  should  have  their  times  of  being  off 
duty,  like  soldiers ; and  when  once  the  obedience,  if  required, 
is  certain,  the  little  creature  should  be  very  early  put  for 
periods  of  practice  in  complete  command  of  itself  ; set  on  the 
barebacked  horse  of  its  own  will,  and  left  to  break  it  by  its 
own  strength.  But  the  ceaseless  authority  exercised  over  my 
youth  left  me,  when  cast  out  at  last  into  the  world,  unable 
for  some  time  to  do  more  than  drift  with  its  vortices. 

My  present  verdict,  therefore,  on  the  general  tenor  of  my 
education  at  that  time,  must  be,  that  it  was  at  once  too  formal 
and  too  luxurious ; leaving  my  character,  at  the  most  im- 
portant moment  for  its  construction,  cramped  indeed,  but  not 
disciplined ; and  only  by  protection  innocent,  instead  of  by 
practice  virtuous.  My  mother  saw  this  herself,  and  but  too 
clearh^,  in  later  years ; and  whenever  I did  anything  wrong, 
stupid,  or  hard-hearted, — (and  I have  done  many  things  that 
were  all  three,) — always  said,  “It  is  because  you  were  too 
much  indulged.” 

Thus  far,  with  some  omissions,  I have  merely  reprinted  the 


^Action,  observe,  I say  here  : in  thought  I was  too  independent,  as 
I said  above. 


EEBNE-niLL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 


41 


account  of  these  times  given  in  “ Fors  : ” and  I fear  the  sequel 
may  be  more  trivial,  because  much  is  concentrated  in  the 
foregoing  broad  statement,  which  I have  now  to  continue  by 
slower  steps  ; — and  yet  less  amusing,  because  I tried  always 
ill  “ Fors  ” to  say  things,  if  I could,  a little  piquantly  ; and  the 
rest  of  the  things  related  in  this  book  will  be  told  as  plainly  as 
I can.  But  whether  I succeeded  in  writing  piquantly  in  Fors 
or  not,  I certainl}"  wrote  often  obscurely ; and  the  description 
above  given  of  Herne  Hill  seems  to  me  to  need  at  once  some 
reduction  to  plainer  terms. 

The  actual  height  of  the  long  ridge  of  Herne  Hill,  above 
Thames, — at  least  above  the  nearly  Thames-level  of  its  base  at 
Camberwell  Green,  is,  I conceive,  not  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet:  but  it  gives  the  whole  of  this  fall  on  both 
sides  of  it  in  about  a quarter  of  a mile  ; forming,  east  and 
west,  a succession  of  quite  beautiful  pleasure-ground  and 
gardens,  instantly  dry  after  rain,  and  in  which,  for  children, 
running  down  is  pleasant  jfiay,  and  rolling  a roller  up,  vigor- 
ous work.  The  view  from  the  ridge  on  both  sides  was,  before 
railroads  came,  entirely  lovely  : westward  at  evening,  almost 
sublime,  over  softl}^  wreathing  distances  of  domestic  wood ; — 
Thames  herself  not  visible,  nor  any  fields  except  immediately 
beneath ; but  the  tops  of  twenty  square  miles  of  politely  in- 
habited groves.  On  the  other  side,  east  and  south,  the  Nor- 
wood hills,  partly  rough  wdth  furze,  partly  wooded  with  birch 
and  oak,  partly  in  pure  green  bramble  copse,  and  rather  steep 
pasture,  rose  with  the  promise  of  all  the  rustic  loveliness  of 
Surrey  and  Kent  in  them,  and  with  so  much  of  space  and 
height  in  their  sweep,  as  gave  them  some  fellowship  with  bills 
of  true  hill-districts.  Fellowship  now  inconceivable,  for  the 
Crystal  Palace,  without  ever  itself  attaining  any  true  aspect  of 
size,  and  possessing  no  more  sublimity  than  a cucumber  frame 
between  two  chimneys,  yet  by  its  stupidity  of  hollow  bulk, 
dwarfs  the  hills  at  once  ; so  that  now  one  thinks  of  them  no 
more  but  as  three  long  lumps  of  clay,  on  lease  for  building. 
But  then,  the  Nor-wood,  or  North  wood,  so  called  as  it  was 
seen  from  Croydon,  in  o])position  to  the  South  wood  of  the 
Surrey  downs,  drew  itself  in  sweeping  crescent  good  five  miles 


4:2 


PBJSTERITA, 


round  Dulwich  to  the  south,  broken  by  lanes  of  ascent, 
Gipsy  Hill,  and  others  ; and  from  the  top,  commanding  views 
toward  Hartford,  and  over  the  plain  of  Croydon, — in  con- 
templation of  which  I one  day  frightened  my  mother  out  of 
her  wits  by  saying  “ the  eyes  were  coming  out  of  my  head!” 
She  thought  it  was  an  attack  of  coup-de-soleil. 

Central  in  such  amphitheatre,  the  crowning  glory  of  Herne 
Hill  was  accordingly,  that,  after  walking  along  its  ridge  south- 
ward from  London  through  a mile  of  chestnut,  lilac,  and 
apple  trees,  hanging  over  the  wooden  palings  on  each  side— 
suddenly  the  trees  stopped  on  the  left,  and  out  one  came  on 
the  top  of  a field  sloping  down  to  the  south  into  Dulwich 
valley — open  field  animate  with  cow  and  buttercup,  and 
below,  the  beautiful  meadows  and  high  avenues  of  Dulwich ; 
and  beyond,  all  that  crescent  of  the  Norwood  hills ; a footpath, 
entered  by  a turnstile,  going  down  to  the  left,  always  so  warm 
that  invalids  could  be  sheltered  there  in  March,  when  to  walk 
elsewhere  would  have  been  death  to  them  ; and  so  quiet,  that 
whenever  I had  anything  difficult  to  compose  or  think  of,  I 
used  to  do  it  rather  there  than  in  our  own  garden.  The 
great  field  was  separated  from  the  path  and  road  only  by 
light  wooden  open  palings,  four  feet  high,  needful  to  keep 
the  cows  in.  Since  I last  composed,  or  meditated  there,  vari- 
ous improvements  have  taken  place  ; first  the  neighborhood 
wanted  a new  church,  and  built  a meagre  Gothic  one  with  a 
useless  spire,  for  the  fashion  of  the  thing,  at  the  side  of  the 
field ; then  they  built  a parsonage  behind  it,  the  two  stopping 
out  half  the  view  in  that  direction.  Then  the  Crystal  Palace 
came,  for  ever  spoiling  the  view  through  all  its  compass,  and 
bringing  every  show-day,  from  London,  a flood  of  pedestrians 
dowm  the  footpath,  who  left  it  filthy  with  cigar  ashes  for  the 
rest  of  the  W'eek  : then  the  railroads  came,  and  expatiating 
roughs  by  every  excursion  train,  who  knocked  the  palings 
about,  roared  at  the  cows,  and  tore  down  what  branches  of 
blossom  they  could  reach  over  the  palings  on  the  enclosed 
side.  Then  the  residents  on  the  enclosed  side  built  a brick 
wall  to  defend  themselves.  Then  the  path  got  to  be  insufihr- 
ably  hot  as  well  as  dirty,  and  was  gradually  abandoned  to  the 


EERNE-HILL  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 


43 


! roughs,  with  a policeman  on  watch  at  the  bottom.  Finally, 
1 this  year,  a six  foot  high  close  paling  has  been  put  down  the 
:j  other  side  of  it,  and  the  processional  excursionist  has  the  lib- 
erty  of  obtaining  what  notion  of  the  country  air  and  pros- 
l’  pect  he  may,  between  the  wall  and  that,  with  one  bad  cigar 

ii  before  him,  another  behind  him,  and  another  in  his  mouth. 

1 

I do  not  mean  this  book  to  be  in  any  avoidable  way  dis- 
i|  agreeable  or  querulous  ; but  expressive  generally  of  my  native 
|j  disposition — which,  though  I say  it,  is  extremely  amiable, 

I when  I’m  not  bothered  : I will  grumble  elsewhere  when  I 
i;  must,  and  only  notice  this  injury  alike  to  the  resident  and  ex- 
li  cursionist  at  Herne  Hill,  because  questions  of  right-of-way 
I are  now  of  constant  occurrence  ; and  in  most  cases,  the  mere 
path  is  the  smallest  part  of  the  old  Eight,  truly  understood. 
The  Eight  is  of  the  cheerful  view  and  sweet  air  which  the  path 
commanded. 

Also,  I may  note  in  passing,  that  for  all  their  talk  about 
Magna  Charta,  very  few  Englishmen  are  aware  that  one  of  the 
main  provisions  of  it  is  that  Law  should  not  be  sold  ; and  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  law  of  England  might  preserve  Banstead 
and  other  downs  free  to  the  poor  of  England,  without  charg- 
ing me,  as  it  has  just  done,  a hundred  pounds  for  its  tempo- 
I rary  performance  of  that  otherwise  unremunerative  duty, 
i I shall  have  to  return  over  the  ground  of  these  early  years, 

I to  fill  gaps,  after  getting  on  a little  first  ; but  will  yet  venture 
i here  the  tediousness  of  explaining  that  my  saying  in  Herne 
' Hill  garden  all  fruit  was  forbidden,”  onl}"  meant,  of  course, 
||  forbidden  unless  under  defined  restriction  ; which  made  the 
various  gatherings  of  each  kind  in  its  season  a sort  of  harvest 
I festival ; and  which  had  this  further  good  in  its  apparent 
j severity,  that,  although  in  the  at  last  indulgent  aeras,  the 
i|  peach  which  my  mother  gathered  for  me  when  she  was  sure 
I it  was  ripe,  and  the  cherry  pie  for  which  I had  chosen  the 
I cherries  red  all  round,  were,  I suppose,  of  more  ethereal 
I flavor  to  me  than  they  could  have  been  to  children  allowed 


“To  no  one  will  We  sell,  to  no  one  will  We  deny  or  defer.  Right  or 
Justice.” 


44 


PR^TEBITA, 


to  pluck  and  eat  at  . their  will ; still,  the  unalloyed  and  long 
continuing  pleasure  given  me  by  our  fruit-tree  avenue  was  in 
its  blossom,  not  in  its  bearing.  For  the  general  epicurean 
enjoyment  of  existence,  potatoes  well  browned,  green  peas 
well  boiled, — broad  beans  of  the  true  bitter, — and  the  pots 
of  damson  and  currant  for  whose  animal  filling  we  were 
dependent  more  on  the  greengrocer  than  the  garden,  were  a 
hundredfold  more  important  to  me  than  the  dozen  or  two  of 
nectarines  of  which  perhaps  I might  get  the  halves  of  three, 
— (the  other  sides  mouldy) — or  the  bushel  or  two  of  pears 
which  w’ent  directly  to  the  storeshelf.  So  that,  very  early  in- 
deed in  my  thoughts  of  trees,  I had  got  at  the  principle 
given  fifty  years  afterward  in  Proserpina,  that  the  seeds  and 
fruits  of  them  were  for  the  sake  of  the  flowers,  not  the 
flowers  for  the  fruit.  The  first  joy  of  the  year  being  in  its 
snowdrops,  the  second,  and  cardinal  one,  was  in  the  almond 
blossom, — every  other  garden  and  woodland  gladness  follow- 
ing from  that  in  an  unbroken  order  of  kindling  flower  and 
shadowy  leaf ; and  for  many  and  many  a year  to  come, — un- 
til indeed,  the  whole  of  life  became  autumn  to  me, — my  chief 
prayer  for  the  kindness  of  heaven,  in  its  flowerful  seasons, 
was  that  the  frost  might  not  touch  the  almond  blossom. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  B.^KS  OF  TAY. 

The  reader  has,  I hope,  observed  that  in  all  I have  hitherto 
said,  emphasis  has  been  laid  only  on  the  favorable  conditions 
which  surrounded  the  child  'svhose  history  I am  writing,  and 
on  the  docile  and  impressionable  quietness  of  its  temper. 

No  claim  has  been  made  for  it  to  any  special  power  or  ca- 
pacity ; for,  indeed,  none  such  existed,  except  that  patience  in 
looking,  and  precision  in  feeling,  which  afterward,  with  due 
industry,  formed  my  analytic  power. 

In  all  essential  qualities  of  genius,  except  these,  I w^as  de- 
ficient ; my  memory  only  of  average  power.  I have  literally 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAY. 


45* 


never  known  a child  so  inc.apable  of  acting  a part,  or  telling 
a tale.  On  the  other  hand,  I have  never  known  one  whose 
thirst  for  visible  fact  was  at  once  so  eager  and  so  methodic. 

I find  also  that  in  the  foregoing  accounts,  modest  as  I 
meant  them  to  be,  liigher  literature  is  too  boastfully  spoken 
of  as  my  first  and  exclusive  study.  My  little  Pope’s  “ Iliad,” 
and,  in  any  understanding  of  them,  my  Genesis  and  Exodus, 
were  certainly  of  little  account  with  me  till  after  I was  ten. 
My  calf  milk  of  books  was,  on  the  lighter  side,  composed  of 
“Dame  Wiggins  of  Lee,”  “ The  Peacock  at  Home,”  and  the  like 
nursery  rhymes  ; and  on  the  graver  side,  of  Miss  Edgeworth’s 
“Frank,”  and  “ Harry  and  Lucy,”  combined  with  “Joyce’s 
Scieiititic  Dialogues.”  The  earliest  dated  efforts  I can  find,  in- 
dicating incipient  motion  of  brain-molecules,  are  six  “poems” 
on  subjects  selected  from  those  works  ; between  the  fourth  and 
fifth  of  which  my  mother  has  written  ; “ January,  1826.  This 
book  begun  about  September  or  October,  1826,  finished 
about  January,  1827.”  The  whole  of  it,  therefore,  v/as  written 
and  printed  in  imitation  of  book-print,  in  seventh  year. 
The  book  is  a little  red  one,  ruled  with  blue,  six  inches  high  by 
four  wide,  containing  forty-five  leaves  pencilled  in  imitation 
of  print  on  both  sides, — the  title-2:>age,  written  in  the  form 
here  aj^proximately  imitated,  46,  on  the  inside  of  the  cover. 

Of  tlie  2^1’oinised  four  volumes,  it  aj^pears  that  (according 
to  my  practice  to  this  day)  I accomplished  but  one  and  a 
quarter,  the  first  volume  consisting  only  of  forty  leaves,  the 
rest  of  the  book  being  occu^fied  b}’’  the  aforesaid  six  “ poems,” 
and  the  forty  leaves  losing  ten  of  their  pages  in  the  “copper 
2)lates,”  of  which  the  one,  j^urporting  to  rejDresent  “Harry’s 
new  road,”  is,  I believe,  my  first  effort  at  mountain  drawing. 
The  2:>assage  closing  the  first  volume  of  this  work  is,  I think, 
for  several  reasons,  worth  preservation.  I 2)rint  it,  therefore, 
Vvith  its  own  divisions  of  line,  and  three  variations  of  size  in 
imitated  type.  Punctuation  must  be  left  to  the  reader’s  kind 
conjecture.  The  hyphens,  it  is  to  be  noticed,  were  put  long 
or  short,  to  make  the  print  even,  not  that  it  ever  succeeds  in 
being  so,  but  the  variously  s^Daced  lines  here  imitate  it  pretty 
well. 


PR^TmiTA. 


4-^ 


HARRY  AND  LUCY 

CONCLUDED 

BEING  THE  LAST 

PART  OF 

EARLY  LESSONS 

in  four  volumes 
vol  I 

with  coppef 
plates 


PRINTED  and  composed  by  a little  boy 
and  also  drawn. 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAT, 


47 


Harry  knew  very  well- 
what  it  was  and  went 
on  with  his  drawing  but 
Lucy  soon  called  him  aw- 
ay and  bid  him  observe 
a great  black  cloud  from- 
the  north  which  seemed  ra 
ther  electrical.  Harry  ran 

for  an  electrical  apparatus  which 
his  father  had  given  him  and  the- 
cloud  electrified  his  apparatus  positively 
after  that  another  cloud  came  which 
electrified  his  apparatus  negatively 
and  then  a long  train  of  smaller 
ones  but  before  this  cloud  came 


PR^TERITA, 


4S 

a great  cloud  of  dust  rose  from 
the  ground  and  followed  the  pos 
itive  cloud  and  at  length  seemed 
to  come  in  contact  with  it  and 
when  the  other  cloud  came 
a flash  of  lightning  was  seen 
to  dart  through  the  cloud  of 
dust  upon  which  the  negative 
cloud  spread  very  much  and 
dissolved  in  rain  which  pres 
ently  cleared  the  sky 

After  this  phenomenon  was  over 
and  also  the  surprise  Harry  began 
to  wonder  how  electricity 
could  get  where  there  was- 
so  much  water  but  he  soon- 


observed  a 

rainbow 

and  a- 

rising 

mist 

under 

it  which 

his 

fancy 

soon 

transform 

ed  into  a female  form.  He 
then  remembered  the  witch  of 
the  waters  at  the  Alps  who 
was  raised  from  them  by- 
takeing  some  water  in  the- 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAY. 


4D 


hand  and  throwing  it  into 
the  air  pronouncing  some 
unintelligable  words.  And 
though  it  was  a tale  it- 
affected  Harry  now  when 
he  saw  in  the  clouds  some- 
end  of  Harry  thing 
and  Lucy  like  it. 

The  several  reasons  aforesaid,  which  induce  me  to  reprint 
this  piece  of,  too  literally,  “ composition,”  are — the  first,  that 
it  is  a tolerable  specimen  of  my  seven  years  old  spelling ; — 
tolerable  only,  woi  fair,  since  it  was  extremely  unusual  with  me 
to  make  a mistake  at  all,  whereas  here  there  are  two  (takeing 
and  unintelligable),  which  I can  only  account  for  by  supposing 
I was  in  too  gi*eat  a hurry  to  finish  my  volume  ; — the  second, 
that  the  adaptation  of  materials  for  my  stoiy  out  of  “ Joyce’s 
Scientific  Dialogues”"^  and  “Manfred,”  is  an  extremely  per- 

'“  Tlie  original  passage  is  as  follows,  vol.  vi.,  edition  of  1821,  p. 
188:  — 

“ Dr.  Franklin  mentions  a remarkable  a]:)pearance  which  occurred  to 
Mr.  Wilke,  a considerable  electrician.  On  the  20th  of  July,  1758,  at 
three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  observed  a great  cpiantity  of  dust 
rising  from  the  ground,  and  covering  a field,  and  part  of  the  town  in 
which  he  then  was.  There  was  no  wind,  and  the  dust  moved  gently 
toward  the  east,  where  there  appeared  a great  black  cloud,  which 
electrified  his  apparatus  positively  to  a very  high  degree.  This  cloud 
went  toward  the  west,  the  dust  followed  it,  and  continued  to  rise 
higher  and  higher,  till  it  composed  a thick  pillar,  in  the  form  of  a 
sugar-loaf,  and  at  length  it  seemed  to  be  in  contact  with  the  cloud.  At 
some  distance  from  this,  there  came  another  great  cloud,  with  a long 
stream  of  smaller  ones,  which  electrified  his  apparatus  negatively;  and 
when  they  came  near  the  positive  cloud,  a fiash  of  lightning  was  seen 
to  dart  through  the  cloud  of  dust,  upon  which  the  negative  clouds 
spread  very  much,  and  dissolved  in  I’crin,  which  presently  cleared  the 
atmosphere.” 

4 


50 


PBJETEBITA. 


feet  type  of  the  interwoven  temper  of  my  mind,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  days  just  as  much  as  at  their  end — which  has 
always  made  foolish  scientific  readers  doubt  my  books  because 
there  was  love  of  beauty  in  them,  and  foolish  sesthetic  readers 
doubt  my  books  because  there  was  love  of  science  in  them  ; 
— the  third,  that  the  extremely  reasonable  method  of  final 
judgment,  upon  which  I found  my  claim,  to  the  sensible 
reader’s  respect  for  these  dipartite  writings,  cannot  be  better 
illustrated  than  by  this  proof,  that,  even  at  seven  years  old, 
no  tale,  however  seductive,  could  “ affect  ” Harry,  until  he 
had  seen — in  the  clouds,  or  elsewhere — “something  like  it.” 
Of  the  six  poems  which  follow,  the  first  is  on  the  Steam- 
engine,  beginning, 

“When  furious  up  from  mines  the  water  pours, 

And  clears  from  rusty  moisture  all  the  ores 

and  the  last  on  the  Eainbow,  “in  blank  verse,”  as  being  of  a 
didactic  character,  with  observations  on  the  ignorant  and 
unreflective  dispositions  of  certain  people. 

“ But  those  that  do  not  know  about  that  light, 

Reflect  not  on  it ; and  in  all  that  light, 

Not  one  of  all  the  colors  do  they  know.” 

It  was  only,  I think,  after  my  seventh  year  had  been  ful- 
filled in  these  meditations,  that  my  mother  added  the  Latin 
lesson  to  the  Bible-reading,  and  accurately  established  the 
daily  routine  Avhich  was  sketched  in  the  foregoing  chapter. 
But  it  extremely  surprises  me,  in  trying,  at  least  for  my  own 
amusement,  if  not  the  reader’s,  to  finish  the  sketch  into  its 
corners,  that  I can’t  recollect  now  what  used  to  happen  first 
in  the  morning,  except  breakfasting  in  the  nursery,  and,  if  my 
Croydon  cousin  Bridget  happened  to  be  staying  with  us, 
quarrelling  with  her  which  should  have  the  brownest  bits  of 
toast.  That  must  have  been  later  on,  though,  for  I could  not 
have  been  promoted  to  toast  at  the  time  I am  thinking  of. 
Nothing  is  well  clear  to  me  of  the  day’s  course,  till,  after  my 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAY. 


51 


father  had  gone  to  the  City  by  the  coach,  and  my  mother’s 
household  orders  being  qiiickty  given,  lessons  began  at  half- 
past nine,  with  the  Bible  readings  above  described,  and  the 
two  or  three  verses  to  be  learned  by  heart,  with  a verse  of 
paraphrase  ; — then  a Latin  declension  or  bit  of  verb,  and  eight 
w^ords  of  vocabulary  from  “Adam’s  Latin  Grammar,”  (the  best 
that  ever  was,)  and  the  rest  of  the  day  Avas  my  own.  Arith- 
metic was  wholesomely  remitted  till  much  later ; geography 
I taught  myself  fast  enough  in  my  own  way  ; histoiy  w^as 
never  thought  of,  beyond  what  I chose  to  read  of  Scott’s  “Tales 
of  a Grandfather.”  Thus,  as  aforesaid,  by  noon  I Avas  in  the 
garden  on  fine  days,  or  left  to  my  oAvn  amusements  on  wet 
ones  ; of  which  I have  farther  at  once  to  note  that  nearly  as 
soon  Jis  I could  craAvl,  my  toy-bricks  of  lignum  vitse  had  been 
constant  companions ; and  I am  graceless  in  forgetting  by 
Avhat  extravagant  friend,  ^ greatly  suspect  my  Croydon  aunt,) 
I was  afterAvard  gifted  with  a two-arched  bridge,  admirable 
in  fittings  of  voussoir  and  keystone,  and  adjustment  of  the 
level  courses  of  masonry  Avith  bevelled  edges,  into  Avhich  they 
dovetailed,  in  the  style  of  Waterloo  Bridge.  Well-made  cen- 
trings, and  a course  of  inlaid  steps  doAvn  to  the  Avater,  made 
this  model  largely,  as  accurately,  instructive  : and  I was  never 
weary  of  building,  t<?ibuilding, — (it  Avas  too  strong  to  be 
throwm  doAvn,  but  had  alwa^^s  to  be  taken  down,) — and  re- 
building it.  This  inconceivably  passive — or  rather  impassive 
— contentment  in  doing,  or  reading,  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  again,  I perceive  to  have  been  a great  condition  in  my 
future  pov/er  of  getting  thoroughly  to  the  bottom  of  mat- 
ters. 

Some  2^eople  AA^ould  say  that  in  getting  these  toys  lay  the 
chance  that  guided  me  to  an  early  love  of  architecture  ; but  I 
never  saw  or  heard  of  another  child  so  fond  of  its  toy  bricks, 
except  Miss  Edgeworth’s  Frank.  To  be  sure,  in  this  present 
age, — age  of  universal  brickfield  though  it  be, — people  don’t 
give  their  children  toy  bricks,  but  toy  puff-puffs  ; and  the  little 
things  are  abvays  taking  tickets  and  arriving  at  stations,  Avith- 
out  ever  fathoming — none  of  them  AAdll  take  pains  enough  to 
do  that^ — the  principle  of  a puff-puff ! And  what  good  could 


52 


PR2ETEBITA. 


they  get  of  it  if  they  did, — unless  they  could  learn  also,  that 
no  principle  of  Puff-puff  would  ever  supersede  the  principle 
of  Breath  ? 

But  I not  only  mastered,  with  “Harry  and  Lucy,”  the  entire 
motive  principle  of  puff-puff ; but  also,  by  help  of  my  well-cut 
bricks,  very  utterly  the  laws  of  practical  stability  in  towers 
and  arches,  by  the  time  I was  seven  or  eight  years  old  : and 
these  studies  of  structure  were  farther  animated  by  my 
invariable  habit  of  watching,  with  the  closest  attention,  the 
proceedings  of  any  bricklayers,  stone-sawyers,  or  paviors, — 
whose  work  my  nurse  would  allow  me  to  stop  to  contemplate 
in  our  walks  ; or,  delight  of  delights,  might  be  seen  at  ease 
from  some  fortunate  Avindow  of  inn  or  lodging  on  our  jour- 
neys. In  those  cases  the  day  was  not  long  enough  for  my 
rapture  and  riveted  observation. 

Constantly,  as  aforesaid,  in  the  garden  when  the  weather 
was  fine,  my  time  there  was  passed  chiefly  in  the  same  kind  of 
close  watching  of  the  Avays  of  plants.  I had  not  the  smallest 
taste  for  groAving  them,  or  taking  care  of  them,  any  more 
than  for  taking  care  of  the  birds,  or  the  trees,  or  the  sky,  or 
the  sea.  My  Avhole  time  passed  in  staring  at  them,  or  into 
them.  In  no  morbid  curiosity,  but  in  admiring  wonder,  I 
pulled  every  flower  to  pieces  till  I knew  all  that  could  be  seen 
of  it  Avith  child’s  eyes  ; and  used  to  lay  up  little  treasures  of 
seeds,  by  way  of  pearls  and  beads, — never  with  any  thought  of 
soAving  them.  The  old  gardener  only  came  once  a week,  for 
what  sweeping  and  weeding  needed  doing  ; I Avas  fain  to  learn 
to  sweep  the  Avalks  with  him,  but  Avas  discouraged  and  shamed 
by  his  always  doing  the  bits  I had  done  over  again.  I Avas 
extremely  fond  of  digging  holes,  but  that  form  of  gardening 
Avas  not  alloAved.  Necessarily,  I fell  always  back  into  my 
merely  contemplative  mind,  and  at  nine  years  old  began  a 
poem,  called  “Eudosia,” — I forget  AAholly  where  I got  hold  of 
this  name,  or  Avhat  I understood  by  it, — “On  the  Universe,” 
though  I could  understand  not  a little  by  it,  now.  A couplet 
or  two,  as  the  real  beginning  at  once  of  “Deucalion  ” and  “Pro- 
serpina,” may  be  perhaps  allowed,  together  with  the  preceding, 
a place  in  this  grave  memoir  ; the  rather  that  I am  again 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAY. 


53 

enabled  to  give  accurate  date — September  28th,  1828 — for  the 
beginning  of  its  “First  book,”  as  follows; — 

“ Wlien  first  the  wratli  of  heaven  o’erwhelmed  the  world, 

And  o’er  the  rocks,  and  hills,  and  mountains,  hurl’d 
The  waters’  gathering  mass ; and  sea  o’er  shore, — 

Then  mountains  fell,  and  vales,  unknown  before. 

Lay  where  tliey  were.  Far  different  was  the  Earth 
When  first  the  Hood  came  down,  than  at  its  second  birth. 

Now  for  its  produce  ! — Queen  of  flowers,  O rose, 

From  whose  fair  colored  leaves  such  odor  flows. 

Thou  must  now  be  l)efore  thy  subjects  named, 

Both  for  thy  beauty  and  thy  sweetness  famed. 

Thou  art  the  flower  of  England,  and  the  flow  r 
Of  Beauty  too— of  Venus'  odrous  bower. 

And  thou  wilt  often  shed  sweet  odors  round, 

And  often  stooping,  hide  thy  head  on  ground.'*' 

And  then  the  lily,  towering  up  so  proud, 

And  raising  its  gay  head  among  the  various  crowd, 

There  the  black  spots  upon  a scarlet  ground, 

And  there  the  taper- pointed  leaves  are  found.” 

In  220  lines,  of  such  quality,  the  first  book  ascends  from 
the  rose  to  the  oak.  The  second  begins — to  my  surprise,  and 
in  extremely  exceptional  violation  of  my  above-boasted  custom 
— with  an  ecstatic  apostrophe  to  what  I had  never  seen  1 

“ I sing  the  Pine,  which  clothes  high  Switzer’s  f head, 

And  high  enthroned,  grows  on  a rocky  bed. 

On  gulphs  so  deep,  on  cliffs  that  are  so  high. 

He  that  would  dare  to  climb  them,  dares  to  die.” 

TIjIs  enthusiasm,  however,  only  lasts — mostly  exhausting 
itself  in  a description,  verified  out  of  “ Harry  and  Lucy,”  of  the 
slide  of  Alpnach, — through  76  lines,  w^hen  the  verses  cease, 
and  the  book  being  turned  upside  down,  begins  at  the  other 
end  with  the  information  that  “ Rock-crystal  is  accompanied 
by  Actynolite,  Axinite,  and  Epidote,  at  Bourg  d’Oisaus  in 


* An  awkward  way — chiefly  for  the  rhyme’s  sake — of  saying  that  roses 
are  often  too  heavy  for  their  stalks, 
f Switzer,  clearly  short  for  Switzerland. 


54 


PR^TEEITA. 


Daiiphiny.”  But  the  garden-meditations  never  ceased,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  say  how  much  strength  was  gained,  or 
how  much  time  uselessly  given,  except  in  pleasure,  to  these 
quiet  hours  and  foolish  rhymes.  Their  happiness  made  all 
the  duties  of  outer  life  irksome,  and  their  unprogressive  rev- 
eries might,  the  reader  may  think,  if  my  mother  had  wished, 
have  been  changed  into  a beginning  of  sound  botanical 
knowledge.  But,  while  there  were  books  on  geology  and 
mineralogy  which  I could  understand,  all  on  botany  were 
then, — and  they  are  little  mended  now, — harder  than  the 
Latin  grammar.  The  mineralogy  was  enough  for  me  seri- 
ously to  work  at,  and  I am  inclined  finally  to  aver  that  the 
garden-time  could  not  have  been  more  rightly  passed,  unless 
in  weeding. 

At  six  punctually  I joined  my  father  and  mother  at  tea, 
being,  in  the  drawing-room,  restricted  to  the  inhabitation  of 
the  sacred  niche  above  referred  to,  a recess  beside  the  fire- 
place, well  lighted  from  the  lateral  window  in  the  summer 
evenings,  and  by  the  chimney-piece  lamp  in  winter,  and  out 
of  all  inconvenient  heat,  or  hurtful  draught.  A good  writing- 
table  before  it  shut  me  well  in,  and  carried  my  plate  and 
cup,  or  books  in  service.  After  tea,  my  father  read  to  my 
mother  what  pleased  themselves,  I picking  up  what  I could, 
or  reading  what  I liked  better  instead.  Thus  I heard  all  the 
Shakespeare  comedies  and  historical  plays  again  and  again, — 
all  Scott,  and  all  “Don  Quixote,”  a favorite  book  of  my  father’s, 
and  at  which  I could  then  laugh  to  ecstasy ; now,  it  is  one  of 
the  saddest,  and,  in  some  things,  the  most  offensive  of  books 
to  me. 

My  father  was  an  absolutely  beautiful  reader  of  the  best 
poetry  and  prose  ; — of  Shakespeare,  Pope,  Spenser,  Byron, 
and  Scott ; as  of  Goldsmith,  Addison,  and  Johnson.  Lighter 
ballad  poetry  he  had  not  fineness  of  ear  to  do  justice  to  : his 
sense  of  the  strength  and  wisdom  of  true  meaning,  and  of 
the  force  of  rightly  ordered  syllables,  made  his  delivery  of 
“Hamlet,”  “Lear,”  “Caesar,” or  “Marmion,” melodiously  grand 
and  just ; but  he  had  no  idea  of  modulating  the  refrain  of  a 
ballad,  and  had  little  patience  with  the  tenor  of  its  sentiment. 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAY. 


55 


He  looked  always,  iu  the  matter  of  what  he  read,  for  heroic 
will  and  consummate  reason  : never  tolerated  the  morbid  love 
of  misery  for  its  own  sake,  and  never  read,  either  for  his  own 
pleasure  or  my  instruction,  such  ballads  as  “Burd  Helen,”  the 
“Twa  Corines,”  or  any  other  rhyme  or  story  which  sought  its 
interest  in  vain  love  or  fruitless  death. 

But  true,  pure,  and  ennobling  sadness  began  very  early  to 
mingle  its  undertone  with  the  constant  happiness  of  those 
days  ; — a ballad  music,  beautiful  in  sincerity,  and  hallowing 
them  like  cathedral  chant.  Concerning  which, — I must  go 
back  now  to  the  days  I have  only  heard  of  with  the  hearing 
of  the  ear,  and  yet  of  which  some  are  to  me  as  if  mine  eyes 
had  seen  them. 

It  must  have  been  a little  after  1780  that  my  paternal 
grandmother,  Catherine  Tweeddale,  ran  away  wnth  my  pater- 
nal grandfather  when  she  was  not  quite  sixteen  ; and  my 
aunt  Jessie,  my  father’s  only  sister,  was  born  a year  after- 
ward ; a few  weeks  after  which  event,  my  grandmother,  not 
yet  seventeen,  was  surprised,  by  a friend  who  came  into  her 
room  unannounced,  dancing  a threesome  reel,  with  two  chairs 
for  her  partners  ; she  having  found  at  the  moment  no  other 
way  of  adequately  expressing  the  pleasure  she  took  in  this 
mortal  life,  and  its  gifts  and  promises. 

The  latter  failed  somewhat  afterward  ; and  my  aunt  Jessie, 
a very  precious  and  perfect  creature,  beautiful  in  her  dark- 
eyed, Highland  way, — utterly  religious,  in  her  quiet  Puritan 
way, — and  very  submissive  to  Fates  mostly  unkind,  was  mar- 
ried to  a somewhat  rough  tanner,  with  a fairly  good  business 
in  the  good  town  of  Perth  : and,  when  I was  old  enough  to 
be  taken  first  to  visit  them,  my  aunt  and  my  uncle  the  tanner 
lived  in  a square-built  gray  stone  house  in  the  suburb  of 
Perth  known  as  “Bridge-End,”  the  house  some  fifty  yards 
north  of  the  bridge  ; its  garden  sloping  steeply  to  the  Tay, 
which  eddied,  three  or  four  feet  deep  of  sombre  crystal,  round 
the  steps  where  the  servants  dipped  their  pails. 

A mistaken  correspondent  in  “Fors”  once  complained  of  my 
coarse  habit  of  sneering  at  people  of  no  ancestry.  I have  no 
0uch  habit ; though  not  always  entirely  at  ease  in  writing  of 


56 


PRMTERITA. 


my  uncles  the  baker  and  the  tanner.  And  my  readers  may 
trust  me  when  I tell  them  that,  in  now  remembering  my 
dreams  in  the  house  of  the  entirely  honest  chief  baker  of 
Market  Street,  Croydon,  and  of  Peter, — not  Simon, — the  tan- 
ner, whose  house  was  by  the  riverside  of  Perth,  I would  not 
change  the  dreams,  far  less  the  tender  realities,  of  those  early 
diiys,  for  anything  I hear  now  remembered  by  lords  or  dames, 
of  their  days  of  childhood  in  castle  halls,  and  by  sweet  lawns 
and  lakes  in  park-walled  forest. 

Lawn  and  lake  enough  indeed  I had,  in  the  North  Inch  of 
Perth,  and  pools  of  pausing  Tay,  before  Rose  Terrace,  (where 
I used  to  live  after  my  uncle  died,  briefly  apoplectic,  at  Bridge- 
End,)  in  the  peace  of  the  fair  Scotch  summer  days,  with  my 
wddowed  aunt,  and  my  little  cousin  Jessie,  then  traversing  a 
bright  space  between  her  sixth  and  ninth  year ; dark-eyed 
deeply,  ^ like  her  mother,  and  similarly  pious ; so  that  she 
and  I used  to  compete  in  the  Sunday  evening  Scriptural  ex- 
aminations ; and  be  as  proud  as  two  little  peacocks  because 
Jessie’s  elder  brothers,  and  sister  Mary,  used  to  get  “put 
down,”  and  either  Jessie  or  I was  always  “Dux.”  We  agreed 
upon  this  that  we  would  be  married  when  we  were  a little 
older ; not  considering  it  to  be  preparatorily  necessary  to 
be  in  any  degree  wiser. 

Strangely,  the  kitchen  servant-of-all-work  in  the  house  at 
Rose  Terrace  was  a very  old  “ Mause,”  — before,  my  grand- 
father’s servant  in  Edinburgh, — who  might  well  have  been  the 
prototype  of  the  Mause  of  “ Old  Mortality,”  f but  had  even  a 

* As  opposed  to  tlie  darkness  of  mere  iris,  making  the  eyes  like  black 
cherries. 

f Vulgar  modern  Puritanism  has  shown  its  degeneracy  in  nothing 
more  tlian  in  its  incapability  of  understanding  Scott’s  exquisitely  finished 
portraits  of  the  Covenanter.  In  Old  Mortality  alone,  there  are  four 
which  cannot  be  surpassed;  the  typical  one,  Elspeth,  faultlessly  sublime 
and  pure  ; the  second,  Ephraim  Macbriar,  giving  the  too  common  phase 
of  the  character,  which  is  touched  with  ascetic  insanity  ; the  third, 
Mause,  colored  and  made  sometimes  ludicrous  by  Scottish  conceit,  but 
utterly  strong  and  pure  at  heart ; the  last,  Balfour,  a study  of  supreme 
interest,  showing  the  effect  of  the  Puritan  faith,  sincerely  held,  on  a 
naturally  and  incurably  cruel  and  base  spirit.  Add  to  these  four  studies. 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAK 


57 


more  solemn,  fearless,  and  patient  faith,  fastened  in  her  by 
extreme  suffering ; for  she  had  been  nearly  starved  to  death 
when  she  was  a girl,  and  had  literally  picked  the  bones  out 
of  cast-out  dust-heaps  to  gnaw ; and  ever  afterward,  to  see 
the  waste  of  an  atom  of  food  was  as  shocking  to  her  as  blas- 
phemy. “Oh,  Miss  Margaret ! ” she  said  once  to  my  mother, 
who  had  shaken  some  crumbs  off  a dirt}^  plate  out  of  the  win- 
dow, “ I had  rather  you  had  knocked  me  down.”  She  would 
make  her  dinner  upon  anything  in  the  house  that  the  other 
servants  wouldn’t  eat ; — often  upon  potato  skins,  giving  her 
own  dinner  away  to  any  poor  person  she  saw  ; and  would 
always  stand  during  the  whole  church  service,  (though  at  least 
seventy  years  old  when  I knew  her,  and  very  feeble,)  if  she 
could  persuade  any  wild  Amorite  out  of  the  streets  to  take 
her  seat.  Pier  v.uinkled  and  worn  face,  moveless  in  resolution 
and  patience,  incapable  of  smile,  and  knit  sometimes  perhaps 
too  severely  against  Jessie  and  me,  if  we  wanted  more  creamy 
milk  to  our  porridge,  or  jumped  off  our  favorite  box  on  Sunday, 
— (“  Never  mind,  John,”  said  Jessie  to  me,  once,  seeing  me  in 
an  unchristian  state  of  provocation  on  this  subject,  “ when  we’re 
married,  we’ll  jump  off  boxes  all  day  long,  if  we  like  ! ”) — may 
have  been  partly  instrumental  in  giving  me  that  slight  bias 
against  Evangelical  religion,  which  I confess  to  be  sometimes 
traceable  in  my  later  works ; but  I never  can  be  thankful 
enough  for  having  seen  in  our  own  “ Old  Manse,”  the  Scottish 
Puritan  spirit  in  its  perfect  faith  and  force  ; and  been  enabled 
tliercfore  afterward  to  trace  its  agency  in  the  reforming 
policy  of  Scotland,  with  the  reverence  and  honor  it  deserves. 

My  aunt,  a pure  dove-priestess,  if  ever  there  was  one,  of 
Highland  Dodona,  was  of  a far  gentler  temper ; but  still,  to 
me,  remained  at  a wistful  distance.  She  had  been  much  sad- 
dened by  the  loss  of  three  of  her  children  before  her  hus- 
band’s death.  Eittle  Peter,  especially,  had  been  the  corner- 
stone of  her  love’s  building  ; and  it  was  thrown  down  swiftly  : 

from  this  single  novel,  those  in  the  Heart  of  Midlothian,  and  Nicol 
Jarvie  and  Andrew  Fairservice  from  Eob  Roy,  and  you  have  a series 
of  theological  analyses  far  beyond  those  of  any  other  philosophical  work 
that  I know,  of  any  period. 


58 


PR^ETERITA. 


— white  swelling  came  in  the  knee  ; he  suffered  much,  and 
grew  weaker  gradually,  dutiful  always,  and  loving,  and  wholly 
patient.  She  wanted  him  one  day  to  take  half  a glass  of  port 
wine,  and  took  him  on  her  knee,  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  Not 
now,  mamma  ; in  a minute,”  said  he;  and  put  his  head  on  her 
shoulder,  and  gave  one  long,  low  sigh,  and  died.  Then  there 
was  Catharine  ; and — I forget  the  other  little  daughter’s  name, 
I did  not  see  them ; my  mother  told  me  of  them  ; — eagerly 
always  about  Catharine,  who  had  been  her  own  favorite.  My 
aunt  had  been  talking  earnestly  one  day  with  her  husband 
about  these  two  children  ; planning  this  and  that  for  their 
schooling  and  what  not : at  night,  for  a little  while  she  could 
not  sleep  ; and  as  she  lay  thinking,  she  saw  the  door  of  the 
room  open,  and  tw'o  spades  come  into  it,  and  stand  at  the  foot 
of  her  bed.  Both  the  children  were  dead  within  brief  time 
afterward.  I was  about  to  write  “within  a fortnight  ” — but  I 
cannot  be  sure  of  remembering  my  mother’s  words  accurately. 

But  when  I was  in  Perth,  there  w’ere  still — Mary,  her  eldest 
daughter,  who  looked  after  us  children  when  Mause  was  too 
busy  ; James  and  John,  William  and  Andrew ; (I  can’t  think 
whom  the  unapostolic  William  was  named  after).  But  the 
boys  were  then  all  at  school  or  college, — the  scholars,  William 
and  Andrew,  only  came  home  to  tease  Jessie  and  me,  and  eat 
the  biggest  jargonel  pears ; the  collegians  were  wholly  ab- 
stract ; and  the  two  girls  and  I played  in  our  quiet  ways  on 
the  North  Inch,  and  by  the  “Lead,”  a stream  “led”  from  the 
Tay  past  Rose  Terrace  into  the  town  for  molinary  purposes  ; 
and  long  ago,  I suppose,  bricked  over  or  choked  with  rubbish  ; 
but  then  lovelj^  and  a perpetual  treasure  of  flowing  diamond 
to  us  children.  Mary,  by  the  way,  was  ascending  toward 
twelve — fair,  blue-eyed,  and  moderately  pretty  ; and  as  pious 
as  Jennie,  without  being  quite  so  zealous. 

My  father  rarely  stayed  with  us  in  Perth,  but  went  on 
business  travel  through  Scotland,  and  even  my  mother  became 
a curiously  unimportant  figure  at  Rose  Terrace.  I can’t 
understand  how  she  so  rarely  walked  with  us  children  ; she 
and  my  aunt  seemed  always  to  have  their  own  secluded  ways. 
Mary,  Jessie,  and  I were  allowed  to  do  what  we  liked  on  the 


THE  BANKS  OF  TAT, 


59 


Inch  : and  I don’t  remember  doing  any  lessons  in  these  Perth 
times,  except  the  above-described  competitive  divinity  on 
Sunday. 

Had  there  been  anybody  then  to  teach  me  anything  about 
plants  or  pebbles,  it  had  been  good  for  me  ; as  it  was,  I 
passed  my  days  much  as  the  thistles  and  tansy  did,  only  with 
perpetual  w^atching  of  all  the  ways  of  running  water, — a sin- 
gular awe  developing  itself  in  me,  both  of  the  pools  of  Tay, 
where  the  water  changed  from  brown  to  blue-black,  and  of 
the  precipices  of  Kinnoull ; partly  out  of  my  own  mind,  and 
partly  because  the  servants  always  became  serious  wdieii  we 
went  up  Kinnoull  way,  especially  if  I w^anted  to  stay  and  look 
at  the  little  crystal  spring  of  Bower’s  Well. 

“But  you  say  you  were  not  afraid  of  anything?”  writes  a 
friend,  anxious  for  the  unassailable  veracity  of  these  memoirs. 
Well,  I said,  not  of  ghosts,  thunder,  or  beasts, — meaning  to 
specify  the  commonest  terrors  of  mere  childhood.  Every  day, 
as  I grew  wiser,  taught  me  a reasonable  fear  ; else  I had  not 
above  described  m3"self  as  the  most  reasonable  person  of  my 
acquaintance.  And  by  the  swirls  of  smooth  blackness,  broken 
by  no  fleck  of  foam,  where  Ta}^  gathered  herself  like  Medusa,* 
I never  passed  without  awe,  even  in  those  thoughtless  days  ; 
neither  do  I in  the  least  mean  that  I could  walk  among  tomb- 
stones in  the  night  (neither,  for  that  matter,  in  the  day),  as  if 
they  were  only  paving  stones  set  upright.  Far  the  contrary  ; 
but  it  is  important  to  the  reader’s  confidence  in  writings 
wdiich  have  seemed  inordinately  impressional  and  emotional, 
that  he  should  know  I waas  never  subject  to — I should  per- 
haps rather  say,  sorrow^full}^,  never  capable  of—any  manner 
of  illusion  or  false  imagination,  nor  in  the  least  liable  to  have 
my  nerves  shaken  by  surprise.  When  I w'as  about  five  years 
old,  having  been  on  amicable  terms  for  a while  with  a black 
Newfoundland,  then  on  probation  for  watch-dog  at  Herne 
Hill  ; after  one  of  our  long  summer  journeys  my  first  thought 
on  getting  home  was  to  go  to  see  Lion.  My  mother  trusted  me 
to  go  to  the  stable  with  our  one  serving-man,  Thomas,  giving 


* I always  think  of  Tay  as  a goddess  river,  as  Greta  a nymph  one. 


60 


PRu^TERITA. 


him  strict  orders  that  I was  not  to  be  allowed  within  stretch 
of  the  dog’s  chain.  Thomas,  for  better  security,  carried  me 
in  his  arms.  Lion  was  at  his  dinner,  and  took  no  notice  of 
either  of  us  ; on  which  I besought  leave  to  pat  him.  Foolish 
Thomas  stooped  toward  him  that  I might,  when  the  dog 
instantly  flew  at  me,  and  bit  a piece  clean  out  of  the  corner  of 
my  lip  on  the  left  side.  I was  brought  up  the  back  stairs, 
bleeding  fast,  but  not  a whit  frightened,  except  lest  Lion 
should  be  sent  away.  Lion  indeed  had  to  go  ; but  not 
Thomas : my  mother  was  sure  he  was  sorry,  and  I think 
blamed  herself  the  most.  The  bitten  side  of  the  (then  really 
pretty)  mouth,  was  spoiled  for  evermore,  but  the  wound,  drawn 
close,  healed  quickly  ; the  last  use  I made  of  my  movable 
lips  before  Dr.  Aveline  drew  them  into  ordered  silence  for  a 
while,  was  to  observe,  “Mamina,  though  I can’t  speak,  I can 
play  upon  the  fiddle.”  But  the  house  was  of  another  opinion, 
and  I never  attained  any  proficiency  upon  that  instrument 
worthy  of  my  genius.  Not  the  slightest  diminution  of  my 
love  of  dogs,  nor  the  slightest  nervousness  in  managing  them, 
was  induced  by  the  accident. 

I scarcely  know  whether  I was  in  any  real  danger  or  not 
when,  another  day,  in  the  same  stable,  quite  by  myself,  I 
went  head  foremost  into  the  large  water-tub  kept  for  the 
garden.  I think  I might  have  got  awkwardly  wedged  if  I had 
tried  to  draw  my  feet  in  after  me : instead,  I used  the  small 
watering-pot  I had  in  my  hand  to  give  myself  a good  thrust 
up  from  the  bottom,  and  caught  the  opposite  edge  of  the  tub 
with  my  left  hand,  getting  not  a little  credit  afterward  for 
my  decision  of  method.  Looking  back  to  the  few  chances 
that  have  in  any  such  manner  tried  my  head,  I believe  it  has 
never  failed  me  when  I wanted  it,  and  that  I am  much  more 
likely  to  be  confused  by  sudden  admiration  than  by  sudden 
danger. 

The  dark  pools  of  Tay,  which  have  led  me  into  this  boast- 
ing, were  under  the  high  bank  at  the  head  of  the  North  Inch, 
— the  path  above  them  being  seldom  traversed  by  us  children 
unless  at  harvest  time,  when  we  used  to  go  gleaning  in  the 
fields  beyond  ; Jessie  and  I afterward  grinding  our  corn  in 


UNDER  NEW  TUT0B8UIPS, 


61 


the  kitchen  pepper-mill,  and  kneading  and  toasting  for  our- 
selves cakes  of  pepper  bread,  of  quite  unpurchasable  quality, 
"^n  the  general  course  of  this  my  careful  narration,  I rebut 
v’ith  as  much  indignation  as  may  be  permitted  without  ill 
maimers,  the  charg<"  of  partiality  to  anything  merely  because 
it  was  seen  when  I was  young.  I hesitate,  however,  in  record- 
ing as  a constant  truth  for  the  world,  the  impression  left  on 
me  ^dlen  I went  gleaning  wdth  Jessie,  that  Scottish  sheaves 
are  more  golden  tlian  are  bound  in  other  lands,  and  that  no 
harvests  elsewhere  visible  to  human  eyes  are  so  like  the  “corn 
of  heaven  ” ^ as  those  of  Strath-Tay  and  Strath-Earn. 


CHAPTEK  IV. 

UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS. 

"When  I was  about  eight  or  nine  I had  a bad  feverish  ill- 
ness at  Dunkeld,  during  which  I believe  I was  in  some 
danger,  and  am  sure  I was  very  uncomfortable.  It  came  on 
after  a long  v/alk  in  which  I had  been  gathering  quantities  of 
foxgloves  and  pulling  them  to  pieces  to  examine  their  seeds, 
and  there  were  hints  about  their  having  poisoned  me  ; very 
absurd,  but  which  extended  the  gathering  awm  from  river 
eddies  to  foxglove  dells.  Not  long  after  that,  when  we  were 
back  at  home,  my  cousin  Jessie  fell  ill,  and  died  very  slowly, 
of  w^ater  on  the  brain.  I ivas  very  sorry,  not  so  much  in  any 
strength  of  early  affection,  as  in  the  feeling  that  the  happy, 
happy  days  at  Perth  were  for  ever  ended,  since  there  was  no 
more  Jessie. 

Before  her  illness  took  its  fatal  form, — before,  indeed,  I 
believe  it  had  at  all  declared  itself — my  aunt  dreamed  one  of 
her  foresight  dreams,  simple  and  plain  enough  for  anyone’s 
interpretation  ; — that  she  was  approaching  the  ford  of  a dark 
river,  alone,  wdien  little  Jessie  came  running  up  behind  lier, 
and  passed  her,  and  went  tlirough  hrst.  Then  she  passed 


* Psalm  Ixxviii.  24. 


62 


PRMTEniTA, 


through  herself,  and  looking  back  from  the  other  side,  saw 
her  old  Mause  approaching  from  the  distance  to  the  bank  of 
the  stream.  And  so  it  was,  that  Jessie,  immediately  after- 
ward, sickened  rapidly  and  died  ; and  a few  months,  or  it 
might  be  nearty  a year  afterward,  my  aunt  died  of  decline  ; 
and  Mause,  some  two  or  three  years  later,  having  had  no  care 
after  her  mistress  and  Jessie  were  gone,  but  when  she  might 
go  to  them. 

I was  at  Plymouth  with  my  father  and  mother  when  my 
Scottish  aunt  died,  and  had  been  very  happy  with  my  nurse 
on  the  hill  east  of  the  town,  looking  out  on  the  bay  and 
breakwater  ; and  came  in  to  find  my  father,  for  the  first  time 
I had  ever  seen  him,  in  deep  distress  of  sobbing  tears. 

I Avas  very  sorry  that  my  aunt  was  dead,  but,  at  that  time 
(and  a good  deal  since,  also,)  I lived  mostly  in  the  present, 
like  an  animal,  and  my  principal  sensation  Avas, — What  a pity 
it  Avas  to  pass  such  an  uncomfortable  evening — and  we  at 
Plymouth  ! 

The  deaths  of  Jessie  and  her  mother  of  course  ended  our 
Scottish  days.  The  only  surviving  daughter,  Mary,  was 
thenceforward  adopted  by  my  father  and  mother,  and  brought 
up  Avith  me.  She  Avas  fourteen  when  she  came  to  us,  and  I 
four  years  younger  ; — so  with  the  Perth  days,  closed  the  first 
decade  of  my  life.  Mary  was  a rather  pretty,  blue-eyed, 
clumsily-made  girl,  very  amiable  and  affectionate  in  a quiet 
Avay,  AAuth  no  parts,  but  good  sense  and  good  principle, 
honestly  and  inoffensively  pious,  and  equal  tempered,  but 
wdth  no  pretty  girlish  ways  or  fancies.  She  became  a serene 
additional  neutral  tint  in  the  household  harmony ; read 
alternate  verses  of  the  Bible  Avith  my  mother  and  me  in  the 
mornings,  and  Avent  to  a day  school  in  the  forenoon.  When 
we  travelled  she  took  someAvhat  of  a governess  position  to- 
Avard  me,  we  being  allowed  to  explore  places  together  with- 
out my  nurse  ; — but  we  generally  took  old  Anne  too  for 
better  company. 

It  began  now  to  be  of  some  importance  what  church  I Avent 
to  on  Sunday  morning.  My  father,  who  was  still  much 
broken  in  health,  could  not  go  to  the  long  Church  of  England 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS, 


63 


service,  and,  mother  being  evangelical,  he  went  content- 
edly, or  at  least  submissively,  with  her  and  me  to  Beresford 
Chapel,  Walworth,  where  the  Rev.  D.  Andrews  preached, 
regularly,  a somewhat  eloquent,  forcible,  and  ingenious  ser- 
mon, not  tiresome  to  him  : — the  prayers  were  abridged  from 
the  Church  Service,  and  we,  being  the  grandest  people  in  the 
congregation,  were  allowed — though,  as  I now  remember,  not 
without  offended  and  reproachful  glances  from  the  more  con- 
scientious worshippers — to  come  in  when  even  -those  short 
prayers  were  half  over.  Mary  and  I used  each  to  write  an 
abstract  of  the  sermon  in  the  afternoon,  to  please  ourselves, 

■ — Mary  dutifully,  and  I to  show  how  well  I could  do  it.  We 
never  went  to  church  in  afternoon  or  evening.  I remember 
yet  the  amazed  and  appalling  sensation,  as  of  a vision  pre- 
liminary to  the  Day  of  Judgment,  of  going,  a year  or  two 
later,  first  into  a church  by  candlelight. 

We  had  no  family  worship,  but  our  servants  were  better 
cared  for  than  is  often  the  case  in  ostentatiously  religious 
houses.  My  mother  used  to  take  them,  when  girls,  from 
families  known  to  her,  sister  after  sister,  and  we  never  had 
a bad  one. 

On  the  Sunday  evening  my  father  would  sometimes  read 
us  a sermon  of  Blair’s,  or  it  might  be,  a clerk  or  a customer 
would  dine  with  us,  when  the  conversation,  in  mere  necessary 
courtesjg  would  take  generally  the  direction  of  sherry.  Mary 
and  I got  through  the  evening  how  we  could,  over  the  “Pil- 
grim’s Progress,”  Bunyan’s  “Holy  War,”  “Quarles’s  Em- 
blems,” “Foxe’s  Book  of  Martyrs,”  Mrs.  Sherwood’s  “Lady 
of  the  Manor,” — a very  awful  book  to  me,  because  of  the 
stories  in  it  of  wicked  girls  wlio  had  gone  to  balls,  dying 
immediately  after  of  fever, — and  Mrs.  Sherwood’s  “Henry 
Milner,” — of  which  more  presently, — the  Youth’s  Magazine^ 
“Alfred  Campbell  the  Young  Pilgrim,”  and,  though  I’ather  as 
a profane  indulgence,  permitted  because  of  the  hardness  of 
our  hearts,  Bingiey’s  “Natural  History.”  We  none  of  us 
cared  for  singing  hymns  or  psalms  as  such,  and  were  too 
honest  to  amuse  ourselves  with  them  as  sacred  music,  besides 
that  we  did  not  find  their  music  amusing. 


G4 


PR^TERITA. 


My  father  and  mother,  though  due  cheques  for  charities 
were  of  course  sent  to  Dr.  Andrews,  and  various  civilities  at 
Christmas,  in  the  way  of  turkeys  or  boxes  of  raisins,  intimated 
their  satisfaction  with  the  style  of  his  sermons  and  purity  of 
his  doctrine, — had  yet,  with  their  usual  shyness,  never  asked 
for  his  acquaintance,  or  even  permitted  the  state  of  their 
souls  to  be  inquired  after  in  j^astoral  visits.  Mary  and 
I,  however,  were  charmed  merely  by  the  distant  effect  of 
him,  and  used  to  walk  with  Anne  up  and  down  in  Walworth, 
merely  in  hope  of  seeing  him  pass  on  the  other  side  of  the 
way.  At  last,  one  daj",  when,  by  extreme  favor  of  Fortune, 
he  met  us  in  a great  hurry  on  our  own  side  of  it,  and  nearly 
tumbled  over  me,  Anne,  as  he  recovered  himself,  dropped 
him  a low  courtesey  ; whereupon  he  stopped,  inquired  who  we 
were,  and  was  extremely  gracious  to  us  ; and  we,  coming  home 
ill  a fever  of  delight,  announced,  not  much  to  my  mother’s 
satisfaction,  that  the  Doctor  had  said  he  would  call  some 
day ! And  so,  little  by  little,  the  blissful  acquaintance  was 
made.  I might  be  eleven  or  going  on  twelve  by  that  time. 
Miss  Andrews,  the  elder  sister  of  the  “Angel  in  the  House,” 
was  an  extremel}^  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen  ; she  sang  “ Tam- 
bourgi,  Tambourgi  with  great  spirit  and  a rich  voice,  W’eiit 
at  blackberry  time  on  rambles  with  us  at  the  Norw'ood  Spa, 
and  made  me  feel  generally  that  there  was  something  in 
girls  that  I did  not  understand,  and  that  was  curiously  agree- 
able. And  at  last,  because  I was  so  fond  of  the  Doctor,  and 
he  had  the  reputation  (in  Walworth)  of  being  a good  scholar, 
my  father  thought  he  might  pleasantly  initiate  me  in  Greek, 
such  initiation  having  been  already  too  long  deferred.  The 
Doctor,  it  afterward  turned  out,  knew  little  more  of  Greek  than 
the  letters,  and  declensions  of  nouns  ; but  he  wrote  the  letters 
prettily,  and  had  an  accurate  and  sensitive  ear  for  rhythm. 
He  began  me  with  the  odes  of  Anacreon,  and  made  me  scan 
both  them  and  my  Virgil  thoroughly,  sometimes,  by  way  of 
interlude,  reciting  bits  of  Shakespeare  to  me  with  force  and 
propriety.  The  Anacreontic  metre  entirely  pleased  me,  nor 


* Hebrew  Melodies, 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS. 


C5 


less  the  Anacreontic  sentiment.  I learned  half  the  odes  by 
heart  merely  to  please  myself,  and  learned  with  certainty, 
what  in  later  study  of  Greek  art  it  has  proved  extremely  ad- 
vantageous to  me  to  know,  that  the  Greeks  liked  doves,  swal- 
lows, and  roses  just  as  well  as  I did. 

In  the  intervals  of  these  unlaborious  Greek  lessons,  I went 
on  amusing  myself — partly  in  writing  English  doggerel, 
partly  in  map  drawing,  or  copying  Cruikshank’s  illustrations 
to  Grimm,  which  I did  with  great,  and  to  most  peoj^le  now 
incredible,  exactness,  a sheet  of  them  being,  by  good  hap, 
well  preserved,  done  when  I was  between  ten  and  eleven. 
But  I never  saw  any  boy’s  work  in  my  life  showing  so  little 
original  faculty,  or  grasp  by  memory.  I could  literally  draw 
nothing,  not  a cat,  not  a mouse,  not  a boat,  not  a bush,  “ out 
of  my  head,”  and  there  was,  luckily,  at  present  no  idea  on  the 
part  either  of  parents  or  preceptor,  of  teaching  me  to  draw 
out  of  other  people’s  heads. 

Nevertheless,  Mary,  at  her  day  school,  was  getting  drawing 
lessons  with  the  other  girls.  Her  report  of  the  pleasantness 
and  zeal  of  the  master,  and  the  frank  and  somewhat  unusual 
execution  of  the  drawings  he  gave  her  to  coj)y,  interested  my 
father,  and  he  was  still  more  pleased  by  Mary’s  copying,  for 
a proof  of  industry  while  he  was  away  on  his  'winter’s  journey 
— copying,  in  pencil,  so  as  to  produce  the  effect  of  a vigorous 
engraving,  the  little  water-color  by  Prout  of  a wayside  cottage, 
which  was  the  foundation  of  our  future  w^ater-color  collection, 
being  then  our  only  possession  in  that  kind — of  other  kind, 
two  miniatures  on  ivory  completed  our  gallery. 

I perceive,  in  thinking  over  the  good  work  of  that  patient 
black  and  white  study,  that  Mary  could  have  drawn,  if  she  had 
been  well  taught  and  kindly  encouraged.  But  her  power  of 
patient  copying  did  not  serve  her  in  drawing  from  nature,  and 
when,  that  same  summer,  I between  ten  and  eleven  (1829),  we 
went  to  stay  at  Matlock  in  Derbyshire,  all  that  she  proved  able 
to  accomplish  w^as  an  outline  of  Caxton’s  New  Bath  Hotel,  in 
which  our  efforts  in  the  direction  of  art,  for  that  year,  ended. 

But,  in  the  glittering  white  broken  spar,  specked  wdth 
galena,  by  which  the  walks  of  the  hotel  garden  were  made 


6G 


PR^TEBITA. 


bright,  and  in  the  shops  of  the  pretty  village,  and  in  many 
a happy  walk  among  its  cliffs,  I pursued  my  mineralogical 
studies  on  fluor,  calcite,  and  the  ores  of  lead,  with  indescriba- 
ble rapture  when  I was  allowed  to  go  into  a cave.  My  father 
and  mother  showed  far  more  kindness  than  I knew,  in  yield- 
ing to  my  subterranean  passion  ; for  my  mother  could  not 
bear  dirty  places,  and  my  father  had  a nervous  feeling  that 
the  ladders  would  break,  or  the  roof  fall,  before  we  got  out 
again.  They  went  with  me,  nevertheless,  wherever  I wanted 
to  go, — my  father  even  into  the  terrible  Speedwell  mine 
at  Castleton,  where,  for  once,  I was  a little  frightened  my- 
self. 

From  Matlock  we  must  have  gone  on  to  Cumberland,  for 
I find  in  my  father’s  writing  the  legend,  “ Begun  28th  No- 
vember, 1880,  finished  11th  January,  1832,”  on  the  fly-leaf  of 
the  “Itcriad,”  a poem  in  four  books,  which  I indited,  be- 
tween those  dates,  on  the  subject  of  our  journey  among 
the  Lakes,  and  of  which  some  little  notice  may  be  taken 
farther  on. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  spring  of  1831  that  the  important 
step  was  taken  of  giving  me  a drawing  master.  Mary  showed 
no  gift  of  representing  any  of  the  scenes  of  our  travels,  and 
I began  to  express  some  wish  that  I could  draw  myself. 
Whereupon,  Mary’s  pleasant  drawing  master,  to  whom  ray 
father  and  mother  were  equitable  enough  not  to  impute  Mary’s 
want  of  genius,  was  invited  to  give  me  also  an  hour  in  the 
week. 

I suppose  a drawing  master’s  business  can  only  become  es- 
tablished by  his  assertion  of  himself  to  the  public  as  the  pos- 
sessor of  a style  ; and  teaching  in  that  only.  Nevertheless, 
Mr.  Runciman’s  memory  sustains  disgrace  in  my  mind  in  that 
he  gave  no  impulse  nor  even  indulgence  to  the  extraordinary 
gift  I had  for  drawing  delicately  with  the  pen  point.  Any 
work  of  that  kind  was  done  thenceforward  only  to  please  my- 
self. Mr.  Runciman  gave  me  nothing  but  his  own  mannered 
and  inefficient  drawings  to  copy,  and  greatly  broke  the  force 
both  of  my  mind  and  hand. 

Yet  he  taught  me  much,  and  suggested  more.  He  taught 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS. 


07 


me  perspective,  at  once  accurately  and  simpl}^ — an  invaluable 
bit  of  teaching*.  He  compelled  me  into  a swiftness  and  facility 
of  hand  which  I found  afterward  extremely  useful,  though 
Avhat  I have  just  called  the  “force,”  the  strong*  accuracy  of  my 
line,  Avas  lost.  He  cultivated  in  me, — indeed  founded, — the 
habit  of  looking  for  the  essential  points  in  the  things  draAvu, 
so  as  to  abstract  them  decisively,  and  he  explained  to  me  the 
meaning  and  importance  of  composition,  though  he  himself 
could  not  compose. 

A very  happy  time  folloAved,  for  about  two  years. 

I was,  of  course,  far  behind  Mary  in  touch-skill  of  pencil 
drawing,  and  it  Avas  good  for  her  that  this  superiority  was 
acknoAvledged,  and  due  honor  done  her  for  the  steady 
pains  of  her  unimpulsive  practice  and  unwearied  atten- 
tion. For,  as  she  did  not  write  poems  like  me,  nor  collect 
spars  like  me,  nor  exhibit  any  prevailing  vivacity  of  mind 
in  any  direction,  she  was  gradually  sinking  into  far  too 
subordinate  a position  to  my  high-mightiness.  But  I could 
make  no  pretence  for  some  time  to  rival  her  in  free-hand 
copying,  and  my  first  attempts  from  nature  were  not  felt  by 
my  father  to  be  the  least  flattering  to  his  vanity. 

These  were  made  under  the  stimulus  of  a journey  to  Hover 
with  the  forethought  of  which  my  mother  comforted  mo 
through  an  illness  of  1829.  I find  my  quite  first  sketch-book, 
an  extremely  inconvenient  upright  small  octaA-^o  in  mottled 
and  flexible  cover,  the  paper  pure  white,  and  ribbedly  gritty, 
filled  with  outlines,  irregularly  defaced  by  impulsive  efforts  at 
finish,  in  arbitrary  places  and  corners,  of  Hover  and  Tun- 
bridge Castles  and  the  main  tower  of  Canterbury  Cathedral. 
These,  with  a really  good  study,  supplemented  by  detached 
detail,  of  Battle  Abbey,  I have  set  aside  for  preservation  ; the 
really  first  sketch  I ever  made  from  nature  being  No.  1,  of  a 
street  in  Sevenoaks.  I got  little  satisfaction  and  less  praise 
by  these  works  ; but  the  native  architectural  instinct  is  in- 
stantly developed  in  these, — highly  notable  for  anyone  wdio 
cares  to  note  such  nativities.  Two  little  pencillings  from 
Canterbury  south  porch  and  central  tower,  I have  given  to 
Miss  Gale,  of  Burgate  House,  Canterbury  ; the  remnants  of 


C8 


PR^TERITA. 


the  book  itself  to  Mrs.  Talbot,  of  Tjn-3’'-Ffynon,  Barmouth, 
both  very  dear  friends. 

But,  before  everything,  at  this  time,  came  my  pleasure  in 
merely  watching  the  sea.  I was  not  allowed  to  row,  far  less 
to  sail,  nor  to  walk  near  the  harbor  alone  ; so  that  I learned 
nothing  of  shipping,  or  anything  else  worth  learning,  but 
spent  four  or  five  hours  every  day  in  simply  staring  and  won- 
dering at  the  sea, — an  occupation  which  never  failed  me  till 
I was  forty.  "Whenever  I could  get  to  a beach  it  was  enough 
for  me  to  have  the  waves  to  look  at,  and  hear,  and  pursue 
and  fly  from.  I never  took  to  natural  history  of  shells,  or 
shrimps,  or  weeds,  or  jelly-fish.  Pebbles? — yes  if  there 

were  any  ; otherwise,  merely  stared  all  day  long  at  the  tum- 
bling and  creaming  strength  of  the  sea.  Idiotically,  it  now 
appears  to  me,  wasting  all  that  priceless  youth  in  mere  dream 
and  trance  of  admiration  ; it  had  a certain  strain  of  Byron- 
esque  passion  in  it,  which  meant  something : but  it  was  a 
fearful  loss  of  time. 

The  summer  of  1832  must,  I think,  have  been  passed  at 
home,  for  my  next  sketch-book  contains  only  some  efforts  at 
tree-drawing  in  Dulwich,  and  a view  of  the  bridge  over  the  now 
bricked-up  “Effra,”  by  which  the  Norwood  road  then  crossed 
it  at  the  bottom  of  Herne  Hill:  the  road  itself,  just  at  the 
place  where,  from  the  top  of  the  bridge,  one  looked  up  and 
down  the  streamlet,  bridged  now  into  putridly  damp  shade 
by  the  railway,  close  to  Herne  Hill  Station.  This  sketch  was 
the  first  in  which  I was  ever  supposed  to  show  any  talent  for 
drawing.  But  on  my  thirteenth  (?)  birthday,  8th  February, 
1832,  my  father’s  partner,  Mr.  Henry  Telford,  gave  me 
Eogers’  “Italy,”  and'determined  the  main  tenor  of  my  life. 

At  that  time  I had  never  heard  of  Turner,  except  in  the  well- 
remembered  saying  of  Mr.  Bunciman’s,  that  “ the  world  had 
lately  been  much  dazzled  and  led  away  by  some  splendid 
ideas  thrown  out  by  Turner.”  But  I had  no  sooner  cast  eyes 
on  the  Rogers  vignettes  than  I took  them  for  my  only  masters, 
and  set  myself  to  imitate  them  as  far  as  I possibly  could  by 
fine  pen  shading. 

I have  told  this  story  so  often  that  I begin  to  doubt  its 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS. 


69 


time.  It  is  curiously  tiresome  that  Mr.  Telford  did  not  him- 
self write  my  name  in  the  book,  and  my  father,  who  writes  in 
it,  “ The  gift  of  Henry  Telford,  Esq.,”  still  more  curiousty, 
for  him,  puts  no  date  : if  it  was  a year  later,  no  matter  ; there 
is  no  doubt  however  that  early  in  the  spring  of  1838  Prout 
published  his  sketches  in  Flanders  and  German3^  I well  re- 
member going  with  my  father  into  the  shop  where  subscribers 
entered  their  names,  and  being  referred  to  the  specimen  print, 
the  turreted  window  over  the  Moselle,  at  Coblentz.  We  got 
the  book  home  to  Herne  Hill  before  the  time  of  our  usual 
annual  tour  ; and  as  my  mother  watched  m}^  father’s  pleasure 
and  mine  in  looking  at  the  wonderful  places,  she  said,  why 
should  not  we  go  and  see  some  of  them  in  reality  ? My  father 
hesitated  a little,  then  with  glittering  eyes  said — whj’’  not  ? 
And  there  were  two  or  three  weeks  of  entirely  rapturous 
and  amazed  preparation.  I recollect  that  very  evening  bring- 
ing down  my  big  geography  book,  still  most  precious  to  me  ; 
(I  take  it  down  now,  and  for  the  first  time  put  my  own  initials 
under  my  father’s  name  in  it) — and  looking  with  Mary  at  the 
outline  of  Mont  Blanc,  copied  from  Saussure,  at  p.  201,  and 
reading  some  of  the  very  singular  information  about  the  Alps 
which  it  illustrates.  So  that  Switzerland  must  have  been  at 
once  included  in  the  j^lans, — soon  prosperously,  and  with  re- 
sult of  all  manner  of  good,  by  God’s  help  fulfilled. 

We  went  by  Calais  and  Brussels  to  Cologne ; up  the  Ehine 
to  Strasburg,  across  the  Black  Forest  to  Schaffliausen,  then 
made  a sweep  through  North  Switzerland  by  Basle,  Berne, 
Interlachen,  Lucerne,  Zurich,  to  Constance, — following  up  the 
Bhine  still  to  Coire,  then  over  Splugen  to  Como,  Milan,  and 
Genoa  ; meaning,  as  I now  remember,  for  Home.  But,  it 
being  June  already,  the  heat  of  Genoa  warned  us  of  impru- 
dence : we  turned,  and  came  back  over  the  Simplon  to 
Geneva,  saw  Chamouni,  and  so  home  by  Lyons  and  Dijon. 

To  do  all  this  in  the  then  only  possible  way,  with  post- 
horses,  and,  on  the  lakes,  with  oared  boats,  needed  careful 
calculation  of  time  each  day.  My  father  liked  to  get  to  our 
sleeping  place  as  early  as  he  could,  and  never  would  stop  the 
horses  for  me  to  draw  anything  (the  extra  pence  to  postilion 


70 


PB^TERITA. 


for  waiting  being  also  an  item  of  weight  in  his  mind) thus  I 
got  into  the  bad  habit,  yet  not  without  its  discipline,  of  mak* 
ing  scrawls  as  the  carriage  went  along,  and  working  them  up 
“out  of  my  head  ” in  the  evening.  I produced  in  this  man- 
ner, throughout  the  journey,  some  thirty  sheets  or  so  of  small 
pen  and  Indian  ink  drawings,  four  or  five  in  a sheet ; some 
not  inelegant,  all  laborious,  but  for  the  most  part  one  just 
like  another,  and  without  exception  stupid  and  characterless 
to  the  last  degree. 

With  these  flying  scrawls  on  the  road,  I made,  when  stay- 
ing in  towns,  some  elaborate  pencil  and  pen  outlines,  of  which 
perhaps  half  a dozen  are  worth  register  and  preservation. 
My  father’s  pride  in  a study  of  the  doubly-towered  Eenais- 
sance  church  of  Dijon  was  great.  A still  more  laborious 
Hotel  de  Ville  of  Brussels  remains  with  it  at  Brantwood.  The 
drawing  of  that  Hotel  de  Ville  by  me  now  at  Oxford  is  a copy 
of  Front’s,  which  I made  in  illustration  of  the  volume  in  which 
I wrote  the  beginning  of  a rhymed  history  of  the  tour. 

For  it  had  excited  all  the  poor  little  faculties  that  were  in  me 
to  their  utmost  strain,  and  I had  certainly  more  passionate  hap- 
piness, of  a quality  utterly  indescribable  to  people  who  never 
felt  the  like,  and  more,  in  solid  quantity,  in  those  three  months, 
than  most  people  have  in  all  their  lives.  The  impression  of  the 
Alps  first  seen  from  Schafl'hausen  of  Milan,  and  of  Geneva, 
I will  try  to  give  some  account  of  afterward, — my  first  busi- 
ness now  is  to  get  on. 

The  winter  of  ’ 33,  and  what  time  I could  steal  to  amuse 
myself  in,  out  of  ’34,  were  spent  in  comparing,  writing  fair, 
and  drawing  vignettes  for  the  decoration  of  the  aforesaid 
poetical  account  of  our  tour,  in  imitation  of  Bogers’  “Italy.” 
The  drawings  were  made  on  separate  pieces  of  paper  and 
pasted  into  the  books ; many  have  since  been  taken  out,  others 
are  there  for  which  the  verses  were  never  written,  for  I had 
spent  my  fervor  before  I got  up  the  Bhine.  I leave  the  un- 
finished folly  in  Joanie’s  care,  that  none  but  friends  may  see 
it. 

Meantime,  it  having  been  perceived  by  my  father  and 
mother  that  Dr.  Andrews  could  neither  prepare  me  for  the 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIP!:^. 


71 


University,  nor  for  the  duties  of  a bishopric,  I was  sent  as  a day 
scholar  to  the  private  school  kept  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Dale,  in 
Grove  Lane,  within  walking  distance  of  Herne  Hill.  Walking 
down  with  my  father  after  breakfast,  carrying  my  blue  bag  of 
books,  I came  home  to  half-past  one  dinner,  and  prepared  my 
lessons  in  the  evening  for  next  day.  Under  these  conditions 
I saw  little  of  my  fellow- scholars,  the  two  sons  of  Mr.  Dale, 
Tom  and  James  ; and  three  boarders,  the  sons  of  Colonel 
Matson,  of  Woolwich ; of  Alderman  Key,  of  Denmark  Hill ; 
and  a fine  lively  boy,  Willoughby  Jones,  afterward  Sir  W., 
and  only  lately,  to  my  sorrow,  dead. 

Finding  me  in  all  respects  what  boys  could  only  look  upon 
as  an  innocent,  they  treated  me  as  I suppose  they  would  have 
treated  a girl ; they  neither  thrashed  nor  chaffed  me, — find- 
ing, indeed,  from  the  first  that  chaff  had  no  effect  on  me. 
Generally  I did  not  understand  it,  nor  in  the  least  mind  it  if 
I did,  the  fountain  of  pure  conceit  in  my  own  heart  sustain- 
ing me  serenely  against  all  deprecation,  whether  by  master  or 
companion.  I was  fairly  intelligent  of  books,  had  a good 
quick  and  holding  memoiy,  learned  whatever  I was  bid  as 
fast  as  I could,  and  as  well ; and  since  all  the  other  boys 
learned  always  as  little  as  they  could,  though  I was  far  in  re- 
tard of  them  in  real  knowledge,  I almost  always  knew  the 
day’s  lesson  best.  I have  already  described,  in  the  first  chap- 
ter of  “Fiction  Fair  and  Foul,”  Mr.  Dale’s  rejection  of  my  clearly 
known  old  grammar  as  a “Scotch  thing.”  In  that  one  action 
he  rejected  himself  from  being  my  master  ; and  I thencefor- 
W’ard  learned  all  he  told  me  only  because  I had  to  do  it. 

While  these  steps  were  taken  for  my  classical  advancement, 
a master  was  found  for  me,  still  in  that  unlucky  Walworth, 
to  teach  me  mathematics.  Mr.  Rowbotham  was  an  extremely 
industrious,  deserving,  and  fairly  well-informed  person  in  his 
own  branches,  who,  with  his  wife,  and  various  impediments 
and  inconveniences  in  the  way  of  children,  kept  a “young 
gentleman’s  Academy”  near  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  in  one 
of  the  first  houses  which  have  black  plots  of  grass  in  front, 
fenced  by  iron  railings  from  the  Walworth  Road. 

He  knew  Latin,  German,  and  French  grammar ; was  able 


72 


PB^ETERITA. 


to  teach  the  “use  of  the  globes”  as  far  as  needed  in  a 
preparatory  school,  and  was,  up  to  far  beyond  the  point  need- 
ed for  me,  a really  sound  mathematician.  For  the  rest,  utterly 
unacquainted  with  men  or  their  history,  with  nature  and  its 
meanings ; stupid  and  disconsolate,  incapable  of  any  manner 
of  mirth  or  fancy,  thinking  mathematics  the  only  proper 
occupation  of  human  intellect,  asthmatic  to  a degree  causing 
often  helpless  suffering,  and  hopelessly  poor,  spending  his 
evenings,  after  his  school-drudgery  was  over,  in  writing  man- 
uals of  arithmetic  and  algebra,  and  compiling  French  and 
German  grammars,  wdiich  he  allowed  the  booksellers  to 
cheat  him  out  of, — adding  perhaps,  with  all  his  year's  lamp- 
labor,  fifteen  or  twenty  pounds  to  his  income  ; — a more 
wretched,  innocent,  patient,  insensible,  unadrnirable,  uncom- 
fortable, intolerable  being  never  was  produced  in  this  era  of 
England  by  the  culture  characteristic  of  her  metropolis. 

Under  the  tuition,  twice  a week  in  the  evening,  of  Mr.  Kow- 
botham,  (invited  always  to  substantial  tea  with  us  before  the 
lesson  as  a really  efficient  help  to  his  hungry  science,  after  the 
walk  up  Herne  Hill,  painful  to  asthma,)  I prospered  fairly  in 
1834,  picking  up  some  bits  of  French  grammar,  of  which  I 
had  really  felt  the  want, — I had  before  got  hold,  somehow,  of 
w'ords  enough  to  make  my  way  about  with, — and  I don’t 
know  how,  but  I recollect,  at  Paris,  going  to  the  Louvre  un- 
der charge  of  Salvador,  (I  wanted  to  make  a sketch  from 
Eembrandt’s  Supper  at  Emmaus,)  and  on  Salvador’s  applica- 
tion to  the  custode  fQr  permission,  it  appeared  I was  not  old 
enough  to  have  a ticket, — fifteen  was  then  the  earliest  admis- 
sion-age ; but  seeing  me  look  woebegone,  the  good-natured 
custode  said  he  thought  if  I went  in  to  the  “ Board,”  or  what- 
ever it  was,  of  authorities,  and  asked  for  permission  m^’self, 
they  would  give  it  me.  Whereupon  I instantly  begged  to  be 
introduced  to  the  Board,  and  the  custode  taking  me  in  un- 
der his  coat  lappets,  I did  verily,  in  what  broken  French  was 
feasible  to  me,  represent  my  case  to  several  gentlemen  of 
an  official  and  impressive  aspect,  and  got  my  permission, 
and  outlined  the  Supper  at  Emmaus  with  some  real  success 
in  expression,  and  was  extremely  proud  of  myself.  But 


UNDER  NEW  TUTORSHIPS, 


73 


my  narrow  knowledge  of  the  language,  tliougli  tliug  avail- 
able for  business,  left  me  sorrowful  and  ashamed  after 
the  fatal  dinner  at  Mr.  Domecq’s,  when  the  little  Elise,  then 
just  nine,  seeing  that  her  elder  sisters  did  not  choose  to 
trouble  themselves  with  me,  and  being  herself  of  an  entirely 
benevolent  and  pitiful  temper,  came  across  the  drawing-room 
to  me  in  my  desolation,  and  leaning  an  elbow  on  my  knee,  set 
herself  deliberately  to  chatter  to  me  mellifluously  for  an  hour 
and  a half  by  the  time-piece, — requiring  no  answer,  of  which 
she  saw  I was  incapable,  but  satisfied  with  my  grateful  and 
respectful  attention,  and  admiring  interest,  if  not  exactly  al- 
ways in  what  she  said,  at  least  in  the  waay  she  said  it.  She 
gave  me  the  entire  history  of  her  school,  and  of  the  objection- 
able characters  of  her  teachers,  and  of  the  delightful  charac- 
ters of  her  comi^anions,  and  of  the  mischief  she  got  into,  and 
the  surreptitious  enjoyments  they  devised,  and  the  joys  of 
coming  back  to  the  Champs  Ely  sees,  and  the  general  likeness 
of  Paris  to  the  Garden  of  Eden.  And  the  hour  and  a half 
seemed  but  too  short,  and  left  me  resolved,  anyhow,  to  do  my 
best  to  learn  French. 

So,  as  I said,  I progressed  in  this  study  to  the  contentment 
of  Mr.  Rowbotham,  went  easy  through  the  three  first  books 
of  Euclid,  and  got  as  far  as  quadratics  in  Algebra.  But  there 
I stopped,  virtually,  for  ever.  The  moment  I got  into  sums 
of  series,  or  symbols  expressing  the  relations  instead  of  the 
real  magnitudes  of  things, —partly  in  want  of  faculty,  partly 
in  an  already  well-developed  and  healthy  hatred  of  things 
vainly  bothering  and  intangible, — I jibbed — or  stood  stunned. 
Afterward  at  Oxford  they  dragged  me  through  some  conic 
sections,  of  which  the  facts  representable  b}^  drawing  became 
afterward  of  extreme  value  to  me  ; and  taught  me  as  much 
trigonometry  as  made  my  mountain  work,  in  plan  and  eleva- 
tion, unaccusable.  In  elementary  geometry  I was  always 
happy,  and,  for  a boy,  strong  ; and  my  conceit,  developing 
now  every  hour  more  venomously  as  I began  to  perceive  the 
weakness  of  my  masters,  led  me  to  spend  nearly  every 
moment  I could  command  for  study  in  my  own  way,  through 
the  year  1835,  in  trying  to  trisect  an  angle.  For  some  time 


74 


PEMTEniTA. 


afterward  I had  the  sense  to  reproach  myself  for  the  waste 
of  thoughtful  hours  in  that  year,  little  knowing  or  dreaming 
how  many  a year  to  come,  from  that  time  forth,  was  to  be 
worse  wasted. 

While  the  course  of  my  education  was  thus  daily  gathering 
the  growth  of  me  into  a stubborn  little  standard  bush,  various 
frost-stroke  was  stripping  away  from  me  the  poor  little  flowers 
— or  herbs — of  the  forest,  that  had  once  grown,  happily  for 
me,  at  my  side. 


CHAPTER  V. 

PARNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON. 

I have  allowed,  in  the  last  chapter,  my  record  of  boyish 
achievements  and  experiments  in  art  to  run  on  to  a date  much 
in  advance  of  the  early  years  which  were  most  seriously 
eventful  for  me  in  good  and  evil.  I resume  the  general  story 
of  them  with  the  less  hesitation,  because,  such  as  it  is,  nobody 
else  can  tell  it;  while,  in  later  years,  my  friends  in  some 
respects  know  me  better  than  I know  myself. 

The  second  decade  of  my  life  was  cut  away  still  more 
sharply  from  the  perfectly  happy  time  of  childhood,  by  the 
death  of  my  Croydon  aunt ; death  of  “cold  ” literally,  caught 
in  some  homely  washing  operations  in  an  east  wind.  Her 
brown  and  white  spaniel.  Dash,  lay  beside  her  body,  and  on 
her  coffin,  till  they  were  taken  away  from  him;  then  he  w^as 
brought  to  Herne  Hill,  and  I think  had  been  my  companion 
some  time  before  Mary  came  to  us. 

With  the  death  of  my  Croydon  aunt  ended  for  me  all  the 
days  by  Wandel  streams,  as  at  Perth  by  Tay;  and  thus 
■when  I was  ten  years  old,  an  exclusively  Herne  Hill-top  life 
set  in  (when  we  were  not  travelling),  of  no  very  beneficial 
character. 

My  Croydon  aunt  left  four  sons — John,  William,  George, 
and  Charles  ; and  two  daughters — Margaret  and  Bridget.  All 
handsome  lads  and  pretty  lasses  ; but  Margaret,  in  early 
youth,  met  with  some  mischance  that  twisted  her  spine,  and 


PARNAS8U8  AND  PLYNLIMMON. 


Y5 

hopelessly  deformed  her.  She  was  clever,  and  witty,  like  her 
mother  ; but  never  of  any  interest  to  me,  though  I gave  a kind 
of  brotherly,  rather  than  cousinly,  affection  to  all  my  Croydon 
cousins.  But  I never  liked  invalids,  and  don’t  to  this  dav  ; 
and  Margaret  used  to  wear  her  hair  in  ringlets,  which  I 
couldn’t  bear  the  sight  of. 

Bridget  was  a very  different  creature  ; a black-eyed,  or,  with 
precision,  dark  hazel-eyed,  slim-made,  lively  girl  ; a little  too 
sharp  in  the  features  to  be  quite  pretty,  a little  too  wiry- 
jointed  to  be  quite  graceful ; capricious,  and  more  or  less  sel- 
fish in  temper,  yet  nice  enough  to  be  once  or  twice  asked  to 
Perth  with  us,  or  to  stay  for  a month  or  two  at  Herne  Hill ; 
but  never  attaching  herself  much  to  us,  neither  us  to  her.  I 
felt  her  an  inconvenience  in  my  nurseiy  arrangements,  the 
nursery  having  become  my  child’s  study  as  I grew  studious  ; 
and  she  had  no  mind,  or,  it  might  be,  no  leave,  to  work  with 
me  in  the  garden. 

The  four  boys  v/ere  all  of  them  good,  and  steadily  active. 
The  eldest,  John,  with  wider  business  habits  than  the  rest, 
w^ent  soon  to  push  his  fortune  in  Austmlia,  and  did  so  ; the 
second,  William,  prospered  also  in  London. 

The  third  brother,  George,  was  the  best  of  boys  and  men, 
but  of  small  wit.  He  extremely  resembled  a rural  George  the 
Fourth,  with  an  expansive,  healthy,  benevolent  eagerness  of 
simplicity  in  his  face,  greatly  bettering  him  as  a type  of 
British  character.  He  went  into  the  business  in  Market  Street, 
with  his  father,  and  both  were  a great  joy  to  all  of  us  in  their 
affectionateness  and  truth : neither  of  them  in  all  their  lives 
ever  did  a dishonest,  unkind,  or  otherwise  faultful  thing — but 
still  less  a clever  one  1 For  the  present,  I leave  them  happily 
filling  and  driving  their  cart  of  quartern  loaves  in  morning 
round  from  Market  Street. 

The  fourth,  and  youngest,  Charles,  was  like  the  last-born  in 
a fairy  tale,  ruddy  as  the  boy  David,  bright  of  heart,  not 
wanting  in  common  sense,  or  even  in  good  sense  ; and  affec- 
tionate, like  all  the  rest.  He  took  to  his  schooling  kindly,  and 
became  grammatical,  polite,  and  presentable  in  our  high 
Herne  Hill  circle.  His  elder  brother,  John,  had  taken  care  of 


7G 


PR^TERITA. 


liis  education  in  more  important  matters : very  early  in  the 
child’s  life  he  put  him  on  a barebacked  pony,  'with  the  simple 
elementary  instruction  that  he  should  be  thrashed  if  he  came 
off.  And  he  stayed  on.  Similarly,  for  first  lesson  in  swim- 
ming, he  pitched  the  boy  like  a pebble  into  the  middle  of  the 
Croydon  Canal,  jumping  in,  of  course,  after  him  ; but  I be- 
lieve the  lad  squattered  to  the  bank  without  help,  and  became 
when  he  w^as  only  “ that  high  ” a fearless  master  of  horse  and 
wave. 

My  mother  used  to  tell  these  two  stories  with  the  greater 
satisfaction,  because,  in  her  own  son’s  education,  she  had 
sacrificed  her  pride  in  his  heroism  to  her  anxiety  for  his 
safety ; and  never  allowed  me  to  go  to  the  edge  of  a pond,  or 
be  in  the  same  field  with  a pony.  As  ill-luck  also  would  have 
it,  there  was  no  manner  of  farm  or  marsh  near  us,  which  might 
of  necessity  modify  these  restrictions  ; but  I have  already  noted 
with  thankfulness  the  good  I got  out  of  the  tadpole-haunted 
ditch  in  Croxted  Lane ; while  also,  even  between  us  and 
tutorial  Walworth,  there  was  one  Elj’sian  field  for  me  in  the 
neglected  grass  of  Camberwell  Green.  There  was  a pond  in 
the  corner  of  it,  of  considerable  size,  and  unknown  depth, — 
probably,  even  in  summer,  full  three  feet  in  the  middle  ; the 
sable  opacity  of  its  waters  adding  to  the  mystery  of  danger. 
Large,  as  I said,  for  a pond,  perhaps  sixty  or  seventy  yards 
the  long  way  of  the  Green,  fifty  the  short ; while  on  its 
western  edge  grew  a stately  elm,  from  whose  boughs,  it  was 
currently  reported,  and  conscientiously  believed,  a wicked 
boy  had  fallen  into  the  pond  on  Sunday,  and  forthwith  the 
soul  of  him  into  a deeper  and  darker  pool. 

It  waas  one  of  the  most  valued  privileges  of  my  early  life  to 
be  permitted  by  my  nurse  to  contemplate  this  judicial  pond 
with  awe,  from  the  other  side  of  the  way.  The  loss  of  it,  by 
the  sanitary  conversion  of  Camberwell  Green  into  a bouquet 
for  Camberwell’s  button-hole,  is  to  this  day  matter  of  peren- 
nial lament  to  me. 

In  the  carrying  out  of  the  precautionary  la'ws  above  de- 
scribed I was,  of  course,  never  allowed,  on  my  visits  to  Croy- 
don, to  go  out  with  my  cousins,  lest  they  should  lead  me  into 


PARNA8SUS  AND  FLYNLIMMON. 


77 


mischief;  and  no  more  adventurous  joys  were  ever  possible 
to  me  there,  than  my  walks  with  Anne  or  my  mother  v/here 
the  stream  from  Scarborough  pond  ran  across  the  road ; or 
on  the  crisp  turf  of  Duppas  Hill ; my  watchings  of  the  pro- 
cess of  my  father’s  drawings  in  Indian  ink,  and  my  own  uii- 
tired  contemplations  of  the  pump  and  gutter  on  the  other 
side  of  the  so-called  street,  but  really  lane, — not  more  than 
twelve  feet  from  wall  to  wall.  So  that,  when  at  last  it  was 
thought  that  Charles,  with  all  his  good  natural  gifts  and 
graces,  should  be  brought  from  Croydon  town  to  London 
city,  and  initiated  into  the  lofty  life  and  work  of  its  burgess 
orders  ; and  when,  accordingly,  he  was,  after  various  taking 
of  counsel  and  making  of  inquiry,  apprenticed  to  Messrs. 
Smith,  Elder,  & Co.,  of  65,  Cornhill,  with  the  high  privilege 
of  coming  out  to  dine  at  Herne  Hill  every  Sunday,  the  new 
and  beaming  presence  of  cousin  Charles  became  a vivid  ex- 
citement, and  admirable  revelation  of  the  activities  of  youth 
to  me,  and  I began  to  get  really  attached  to  him. 

I was  not  myself  the  sort  of  creature  that  a boy  could  care 
much  for,- — or  indeed  any  human  being,  except  papa  and 
mamma,  and  Mrs.  Kichard  Gray  (of  whom  more  presently) ; 
being  indeed  nothing  more  than  a conceited  and  unentertain- 
ingly  troublesome  little  monke}^  But  Charles  was  always 
kind  to  me,  and  naturally  answered  with  some  cousinly  or 
even  brotherly  tenderness  my  admiration  of  him,  and  delight 
in  him. 

At  Messrs.  Smith  & Elder’s  he  was  an  admittedly  exemplary 
apprentice,  rapidly  becoming  a serviceable  shopman,  taking- 
orders  intelligentlj*,  and  knowung  well  both  his  books  and  his 
customers.  Ah  all  right-minded  apprentices  and  good  shop- 
men do,  he  took  personal  pride  in  everything  produced  by 
the  firm  ; and  on  Sundays  always  brought  a volume  or  two  in 
his  pocket  to  show  us  the  character  of  its  most  ambitious 
publications  ; especially  choosing,  on  my  behalf,  any  which 
chanced  to  contain  good  engravings.  In  this  way  I became 
familiar  with  Stanfield  and  Harding  long  before  I possessed  a 
single  engraving  myself  from  either  of  them  ; but  the  really 
most  precious,  and  continuous  in  deep  effect  upon  me,  of  all 


78 


PR^TEBITA, 


gifts  to  my  cliiklliood,  was  from  my  Croydon  aunt,  of  the 
Forget-me-not  ” of  1827,  with  a beautiful  engraving  in  it  of 
Front’s  “ Sepulchral  monument  at  Verona.” 

Strange,  that  the  true  first  impulse  to  the  most  refined 
instincts  of  my  mind  should  have  been  given  by  my  totally 
uneducated,  but  entirely  good  and  right-minded,  mother’s 
sister. 

But  more  magnificent  results  came  of  Charles’s  literary  con- 
nection, through  the  interest  we  ail  took  in  the  embossed  and 
gilded  small  octavo  which  Smith  & Elder  published  annually, 
by  title  “ Friendship’s  Oiiering.”  This  was  edited  by  a pious 
Scotch  missionary,  and  minor — very  much  minor — key,  poet, 
Thomas  Pringle ; mentioned  once  or  twice  with  a sprinkling 
of  honor  in  Lockhart’s  “Life  of  Scott.”  A strictly  conscientious 
and  earnest,  accurately  trained,  though  narrowly  learned, 
man,  with  all  the  Scottish  conceit,  restlessness  for  travel,  and 
petulant  courage  of  the  Parks  and  Livingstones  ; with  also 
some  pretty  tinges  of  romance  and  inklings  of  philosophy  to 
mellow  him,  he  was  an  admitted,  though  little  regarded, 
member  of  the  best  literary  circles,  and  acquainted,  in  the 
course  of  catering  for  his  little  embossed  octavo,  with  ever}’^- 
body  in  the  outer  circles,  and  lower,  down  to  little  me.  He 
had  been  patronized  by  Scott  ; was  on  terms  of  polite  corre- 
spondence with  Wordsworth  and  Kogers  ; of  familiar  inter- 
course with  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  ; and  had  himself  written  a 
book  of  poems  on  the  subject  of  Africa,  in  which  antelopes 
were  called  springboks,  and  other  African  manners  and  cus- 
toms carefully  observed. 

Partly  to  oblige  the  good-natured  and  lively  shopboy,  who 
told  wonderful  things  of  his  little  student  cousin  ; — partly  in 
the  look-out  for  thin  compositions  of  tractable  stucco,  where- 
with to  fill  interstices  in  the  masonry  of  “ Friendship’s 
Offering,”  Mr.  Pringle  visited  us  at  Herne  Plill,  heard  the 
traditions  of  my  literary  life,  expressed  some  interest  in  its 
farther  progress, — and  sometimes  took  a copy  of  verses  away 
in  his  pocket.  He  was  tlie  first  person  who  intimated  to  my 
father  and  mother,  with  some  decision,  that  there  were  as  yet 
no  wholly  trustworthy  indications  of  my  one  day  occupyiug 


PARNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON. 


79 


a liiglier  place  in  English  literature  than  either  Milton  or 
Byron  ; and  accordingly  I think  none  of  us  attached  much 
importance  to  his.  opinions.  But  he  had  the  sense  to  recog- 
nize, through  the  parental  vanity,  my  father’s  high  natural 
powers,  and  exquisitely  romantic  sensibility ; nor  less  my 
mother’s  tried  sincerity  in  the  evangelical  faith,  which  he 
had  set  himself  apart  to  preach : and  he  thus  became  an 
honored,  though  never  quite  cordially  welcomed,  guest  on 
occasions  of  state  Sunday  dinner  ; and  more  or  less  an  adviser 
thenceforward  of  the  mode  of  my  education.  He  himself 
found  interest  enough  in  my  real  love  of  nature  and  ready 
faculty  of  rhyme,  to  induce  him  to  read  and  criticise  for  me 
some  of  my  verses  with  attention  ; and  at  last,  as  a sacred 
Eleusinian  initiation  and  Delphic  pilgrimage,  to  take  me 
in  his  hand  one  day  when  he  had  a visit  to  pay  to  the  poet 
Rogers. 

The  old  man,  previously  warned  of  my  admissible  claims,  in 
Mr.  Pringle’s  sight,  to  the  beatitude  of  such  introduction,  was 
sufficiently  gracious  to  me,  though  the  cultivation  of  germi- 
nating genius  was  never  held  by  Mr.  Rogers  to  be  an  industry 
altogether  delectable  to  genius  in  its  zenith.  Moreover,  I was 
unfortunate  in  the  line  of  observations  by  which,  in  return  for 
his  notice,  I endeavored  to  show  myself  w’orthy  of  it.  I con- 
gratulated him  with  enthusiasm  on  the  beauty  of  the  engrav- 
ings by  which  his  poems  were  illustrated, — but  betrayed,  I 
fear  me,  at  the  same  time  some  lack  of  an  equally  vivid  interest 
in  the  composition  of  the  poems  themselves.  At  all  events, 
Mr.  Pringle — I thought  at  the  time,  somewhat  abruptly — 
diverted  the  conversation  to  subjects  connected  with  Africa. 
These  were  doubtless  more  calculated  to  interest  the  polished 
minstrel  of  St.  James’s  Place  ; but  again  I fell  into  misdemean- 
ors by  allowing  my  own  attention,  as  my  wandering  eyes  too 
frankly  confessed,  to  determine  itself  on  the  pictures  glowing 
from  the  crimson-silken  walls  ; and  accordingly,  after  we  had 
taken  leave,  Mr.  Pringle  took  occasion  to  advise  me  that,  in 
future,  when  I was  in  the  company  of  distinguished  men,  I 
sliould  listen  more  attentively  to  their  conversation. 

These,  and  such  other — (I  have  elsewhere  related  the  Ettrick 


so 


PB^TERITA. 


Sheplierd’s  favoring  visit  to  us,  also  obtained  by  Mr.  Pringle) 
— glorifications  and  advancements  being  the  reward  of  my 
literary  efforts,  I was  nevertheless  not  beguiled  by  them  into 
any  abandonment  of  the  scientific  studies  which  were  indeed 
natural  and  delightful  to  me.  I have  above  registered  their 
beginnings  in  the  sparry  walks  at  Matlock  : but  my  father’s 
business  also  took  him  often  to  Bristol,  where  he  placed  my 
mother,  v/ith  Mary  and  me,  at  Clifton.  Miss  Edge^vorth’s 
stor}"  of  “Lazy  Lawrence,”  and  the  visit  to  Matlock  by  Harry  and 
Lucy,  gave  an  almost  romantic  and  visionary  charm  to  miner- 
alogy in  those  dells  ; and  the  piece  of  iron  oxide  with  bright 
Bristol  diamonds, — No.  51  of  the  Brantwood  collection, — was 
I think  the  first  stone  on  which  I began  my  studies  of  silica. 
The  diamonds  of  it  were  bright  with  many  an  association  be- 
sides, since  from  Clifton  we  nearly  always  crossed  to  Chep- 
stow,— the  rapture  of  being  afloat,  for  half  an  hour  even,  on 
that  mudd}"  sea,  concentrating  into  these  impressive  minutes 
the  pleasures  of  a year  of  other  boys’  boating, — and  so  round  by 
Tintern  and  Malvern,  where  the  hills,  extremely  delightful  in 
themselves  to  me  because  I was  allowed  to  run  free  on  them, 
there  being  no  precipices  to  fall  over  nor  streams  to  fall  into, 
•were  also  classical  to  me  through  Mrs.  Sherwood’s  “ Henry 
Milner,”  a book  which  I loved  long,  and  respect  still.  So  that 
there  was  this  of  curious  and  precious  in  the  means  of  my 
education  in  these  years,  that  my  romance  was  always  ratified 
to  me  by  the  seal  of  localit}^ — and  every  charm  of  locality 
spiritualized  by  the  glow  and  the  passion  of  romance. 

There  was  one  district,  however,  that  of  the  Cumberland 
lakes,  which  needed  no  charm  of  association  to  deepen  the 
appeal  of  its  realities.  I have  said  somewhere  that  my  first 
memory  in  life  was  of  Friar’s  Crag  on  Berwentwater  ; — mean- 
ing, I suppose,  my  first  memory  of  things  afterward  chiefly 
precious  to  me  ; at  all  events,  I knew  Keswick  before  I knew 
Perth,  and  after  the  Perth  days  were  ended,  my  mother  and 
I stayed  either  there,  at  the  Boyal  Oak,  or  at  Lowwood  Inn, 
or  at  Coniston  Waterhead,  while  my  father  went  on  his  busi- 
ness journeys  to  Whitehaven,  Lancaster,  Newcastle,  and  other 
northern  towns.  The  inn  at  Coniston  was  then  actually  at 


PABNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON, 


81 


the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  the  road  from  Ambleside  to  the  vil- 
lage passing  just  between  it  and  the  water  ; and  the  view  of 
the  long  reach  of  lake,  with  its  softly  wooded  lateral  hills,  had 
for  my  father  a tender  charm  which  excited  the  same  feeling  as 
that  with  which  he  afterward  regarded  the  lakes  of  Italy.  Low- 
wood  Inn  also  was  then  little  more  than  a country  cottage, — 
and  Ambleside  a rural  village  ; and  the  absolute  peace  and  bliss 
which  anyone  who  cared  for  grassy  hills  and  for  sweet  waters 
might  find  at  every  footstep,  and  at  every  turn  of  crag  or  bend 
of  bay,  was  totally  unlike  anything  I ever  saw,  or  read  of, 
elsewhere. 

first  sight  of  bolder  scenery  was  in  Wales  ; and  I have 
written, — more  than  it  would  be  wise  to  print, — about  the 
drive  from  Hereford  to  Rliaiadyr,  and  under  Plynlimmon  to 
Pont-y-Monacli : the  joy  of  a walk  with  my  father  in  the  Sun- 
da}^  afternoon  toward  Hafocl,  dashed  only  with  some  alarmed 
sense  of  the  sin  of  being  so  happy  among  the  hills,  instead  of 
writing  out  a sermon  at  home  ; — my  father’s  presence  and 
countenance  not  wholly  comforting  me,  for  we  bot  h of  us  had 
alike  a subdued  consciousness  of  being  profane  and  rebellious 
characters,  compared  to  mj’’  mother. 

From  Pont-y-Monach  we  went  north,  gathering  pebbles  on 
the  beach  at  Aberystwith,  and  getting  up  Cader  Idris  with 
help  of  ponies : — it  remained,  and  rightly,  for  many  a year 
after,  a king  of  mountains  to  me.  Followed  Harlech  and  its 
sands,  Festiniog,  the  pass  of  Aberglaslyn,  and  marvel  of  Menai 
Straits  and  Bridge,  which  Hooked  at,  then,  as  Miss  Edgeworth 
had  taught  me,  wuth  reverence  for  the  mechanical  skill  of 
man, — little  thinking,  poor  innocent,  what  use  I should  see 
the  creature  putting  his  skill  to,  in  the  half  century  to 
come. 

The  Menai  Bridge  it  was,  remember,  good  reader,  not  tube  ; 

• — but  the  trim  plank  roadway  swinging  smooth  between  its 
iron  cobwebs  from  tower  to  tower. 

And  so  oil  to  Llanberis  and  up  Snowdon,  of  which  ascent  I 
remember,  as  the  most  exciting  event,  the  finding  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  a real  “ mineral  ” for  myself,  a piece  of  copper 
pyrites  ! But  the  general  impression  of  Welsh  mountain  form 


82 


PB^TERITA. 


was  so  true  and  clear  that  subsequent  journeys  little  changed 
or  deepened  it. 

And  if  only  then  my  father  and  mother  had  seen  the  real 
strengths  and  weaknesses  of  their  little  John  ; — if  they  had 
given  me  but  a shaggy  scrap  of  a Welsh  pony,  and  left  me  in 
charge  of  a good  Welsh  guide,  and  of  his  wife,  if  I needed  any 
coddling,  they  would  have  made  a man  of  me  there  and  then, 
and  afterward  the  comfort  of  their  own  hearts,  and  probably 
the  first  geologist  of  my  time  in  Europe. 

If  only!  But  they  could  no  more  have  done  it  than  thrown 
me  like  my  cousin  Charles  into  Croydon  Canal,  trusting  me 
to  find  my  way  out  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

Instead,  they  took  me  back  to  London,  and  my  father  spared 
time  from  his  business  hours,  once  or  twice  a week,  to  take  me 
to  a four-square,  sky-lighted,  saw^dust-floored  prison  of  a riding- 
school  in  Moorfields,  the  smell  of  which,  as  we  turned  in  at 
the  gate  of  it,  was  a terror  and  horror  and  abomination  to  me  : 
and  there  I was  put  on  big  horses  that  jumped,  and  reared, 
and  circled,  and  sidled  ; and  fell  ofTthem  regularly  whenever 
they  did  any  of  those  things  ; and  was  a disgrace  to  my  family, 
and  a burning  shame  and  misery  to  myself,  till  at  last  the 
riding-school  was  given  up  on  my  spraining  my  right-hand 
forefinger  (it  has  never  come  straight  again  since), — and  a 
Avell-broken  Shetland  pony  bought  for  me,  and  the  two  of  us 
led  about  the  Norwood  roads  by  a riding-master  with  a lead- 
ing string.  I used  to  do  pretty  well  as  long  as  we  went  straight, 
and  then  get  thinking  of  something,  and  fall  off  when  we 
turned  a corner.  I might  have  got  some  inkling  of  a seat  in 
Heaven’s  good  time,  if  no  fuss  had  been  made  about  me,  nor 
inquiries  instituted  whether  I had  been  off  or  on  ; but  as  my 
mother,  the  moment  I got  home,  made  searching  scrutiny  into 
the  day’s  disgraces,  I merely  got  more  and  more  nervous  and 
helpless  after  every  tumble  ; and  this  branch  of  my  education 
was  at  last  abandoned,  my  parents  consoling  themselves,  as 
best  they  might,  in  the  conclusion  that  my  not  being  able  to 
learn  to  ride  was  the  sign  of  my  being  a singular  genius. 

The  rest  of  the  year  was  passed  in  such  home  employment 
as  I have  above  described  ; — but  either  in  that  or  the  preced- 


PARNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON, 


83 

ing  year,  my  mineralogical  taste  received  a nev/  and  very  im- 
portant impulse  from  a friend  who  entered  afterward  inti- 
mately into  our  family  life,  but  of  whom  I have  imt  yet 
spoken. 

My  illness  at  Dunkeld,  above  noticed,  was  attended  by  two 
physicians, — my  mother, — and  Dr.  Grant.  The  Doctor  must 
then  have  been  a youth  who  had  just  obtained  his  diploma. 
I do  not  know  the  origin  of  his  acquaintance  with  my  parents  ; 
but  I know  that  my  father  had  almost  paternal  influeiice  over 
him  ; and  was  of  service  to  him,  to  wTat  extent  I know  not, 
but  certainly  continued  and  effective,  in  beginning  the  world. 
And  as  I grew  older  I used  often  to  hear  expressions  of  much 
affection  and  respect  for  Dr,  Grant  from  my  father  and 
mother,  coupled  with  others  of  regret  or  blame  that  he  did 
not  enough  bring  out  his  powers,  or  use  his  advantages. 

Ever  after  the  Dunkeld  illness.  Dr.  Grant’s  name  was  associ- 
ated in  my  mind  with  a brown  powder — rhubarb — or  the  like 
— of  a gritty  and  acrid  nature,  which,  bj^  his  orders,  I had  then 
to  take.  The  name  thenceforward  always  sounded  to  me 
gr-r-ish  and  granular ; and  a certain  dread,  not  amounting 
to  dislike — but,  on  the  contrary,  affectionate,  (for  me) — made 
the  Doctor’s  presence  somewhat  solemnizing  to  me  ; the 
rather  as  he  never  jested,  and  had  a brownish,  partly  austere, 
and  sere,  wrinkled,  and — rhubarby,  in  fact,  sort  of  a face. 
For  the  rest,  a man  entirely  kind  and  conscientious,  much 
affectionate  to  my  father,  and  acknowledging  a sort  of  ward- 
to-guardian’s  duty  to  him,  together  with  the  responsibility  of 
a medical  adviser,  acquainted  both  with  his  imagination  and 
his  constitution. 

I conjecture  that  it  must  have  been  owing  to  Dr.  Grant’s 
being  of  fairly  good  family,  and  in  every  sense  and  every 
reality  of  the  word  a gentleman,  that,  soon  after  coming  up  to 
London,  he  got  a surgeon’s  appointment  in  one  of  His  Majes- 
ty’s frigates  commissioned  for  a cruise  on  the  west  coast  of 
South  America.  Fortunately  the  health  of  her  company  gave 
the  Doctor  little  to  do  professionally  ; and  he  was  able  to  give 
most  of  his  time  to  the  study  of  the  liatural  history  of  the 
coast  of  Chili  and  Peru.  One  of  the  results  of  these  shore 


81 


PR^TEBITA. 


expeditions  was  the  finding  such  a stag-beetle  as  had  never 
before  been  seen.  It  had  peculiai*  or  colossal  nippers,  and — 
I forget  what  “ chiasos  means  in  Greek,  but  its  jaws  were 
chiasof.  It  was  brought  home  beautifully  packed  in  a box  of 
cotton  ; and,  when  the  box  was  opened,  excited  the  admii-a- 
tion  of  all  beholders,  and  w^as  called  the  “ Chiasognathos 
Griintii.”  A second  result  was  his  collection  of  a very  perfect 
series  of  Valparaiso  humming-birds,  out  of  which  he  spared, 
for  a present  to  my  mother,  as  many  as  filled  with  purple  and 
golden  flutter  two  glass  cases  as  large  as  Mr.  Gould’s  at  the 
British  Museum,  wBich  became  resplendent  decorations  of  the 
drawing-room  at  Herne  Hill, — were  to  me,  as  I grew  older, 
conclusive  standards  of  plume  texture  and  color, — and  are 
now  placed  in  the  best  lighted  recess  of  the  parish  school  at 
Coniston. 

The  third  result  was  more  important  still.  Dr.  Grant  had 
been  presented  by  the  Spanish  masters  of  mines  with  charac- 
teristic and  rich  specimens  of  the  most  beautiful  veinstones 
of  Copiapo.  It  was  a mighty  fact  for  me,  at  the  height  of 
my  child’s  interest  in  minerals,  to  see  our  own  parlor  table 
loaded  with  foliated  silver  and  arborescent  gold.  Not  only 
the  man  of  science,  but  the  latent  miser  in  me,  was  developed 
largely  in  an  hour  or  two ! In  the  pieces  which  Dr.  Grant  gave 
me,  I counted  my  treasure  grain  by  grain  ; and  recall  to-day, 
ill  acute  sympathy  with  it,  the  indignation  I felt  at  seeing  no 
instantly  reverential  change  in  cousin  Charles’s  countenance, 
when  I informed  him  that  the  film  on  the  surface  of  an  unpre- 
suming specimen,  amounting  in  quantity  to  about  the  six- 
teenth part  of  a sixpence,  was  “ native  silver ! ” 

Soon  after  his  return  from  this  prosperous  voyage,  Dr. 
Grant  settled  himself  in  a respectable  house  half-way  down 
Richmond  Hill,  where  gradually  he  obtained  practice  and  ac- 
cepted position  among  the  gentry  of  that  town  and  its  parkly 
neighborhood.  And  every  now  and  then,  in  the  summer 
mornings,  or  the  gayly  frost-white  winter  ones,  we  used,  papa 
and  mamma,  and  Mary  and  I,  to  drive  over  Clapham  and 
Wandsworth  Commons  to  a breakfast  picnic  with  Dr.  Grant 
at  the  “ Star  and  Garter.”  Breakfasts  much  impressed  on  my 


PARNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON. 


85 


mind,  partly  by  the  pretty  view  from  the  windows  ; but  more, 
because  while  ray  orthodox  breakfast,  even  in  travelling,  v/as 
of  stale  baker’s  bread,  at  these  starry  picnics  I was  allowed 
new  French  roll. 

Leaving  Dr.  Grant,  for  the  nonce,  under  these  pleasant  and 
dignifiedly  crescent  circumstances,  I must  turn  to  the  friends 
who  of  all  others,  not  relatives,  were  most  powerfully  iiiliiieii- 
tial  on  my  child  life, — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Gra}?'. 

Some  considerable  time  during  my  father’s  clerkdoin  had 
been  passed  by  him  in  Spain,  in  learning  to  know  sherry,  and 
seeing  the  ways  of  making  and  storing  it  at  Xerez,  Cadiz,  and 
Lisbon.  At  Lisbon  he  became  intimate  with  another  young 
Scotsman  of  about  his  own  age,  also  employed,  I conceive,  as 
a clerk,  in  some  Spanish  house,  but  himself  of  no  narrow 
clerkly  mind.  On  the  contrary,  Richard  Gray  Vvnnt  far  beyond 
my  father  in  the  romantic  sentiment,  and  scholarly  love  of 
good  literature,  which  so  strangely  mingled  with  my  father’s 
steady  business  habits.  Equally  energetic,  industrious,  and 
high-principled,  Mr.  Gray’s  enthusiasm  was  nevertheless  ir- 
regularly, and  too  often  uselessly,  comscant ; being  to  my 
father’s,  as  Carlyle  says  of  French  against  English  fire  at  Det- 
tingen,  “ faggot  against  anthracite.”  Yet,  I will  not  venture 
absolutely  to  maintain  that,  under  Richard’s  erratic  and  effer- 
vescent influence,  an  expedition  to  Cintra,  or  an  assistance  at 
a village  festa,  or  even  at  a bull-fight,  might  not  sometimes,  to 
that  extent,  invalidate  my  former  general  assertion  that,  during 
nine  years,  my  father  never  had  a holiday.  At  all  events,  the 
young  men  became  close  and  affectionate  friends  ; and  the 
connection  had  a softening,  cheering,  and  altogether  beneficial 
effect  on  my  father’s  character.  Nor  was  their  brotherly 
friendship  any  whit  flawed  or  dimmed,  when,  a little  while 
before  leaving  Spain,  Mr.  Gray  married  an  extremely  good  and 
beautiful  Scotch  girl,  Mary  Monro. 

Extremely  good,  and,  in  the  gentlest  way  entirelj^  simple, 
meek,  loving,  and  serious ; not  clever  enough  to  be  any  way 
naughty,  but  saved  from  being  stupid  by  a vivid  nature,  full 
of  enthusiasm  like  her  husband’s.  Both  of  them  evangelically 
pious,  in  a vivid,  not  virulent,  way  ; and  each  of  them  sacredly, 


80 


PR^TEIUTA. 


no  less  than  passionately,  in  love  with  the  other,  they  were  the 
entirely  best-matched  pair  I have  yet  seen  in  this  match- 
making world  and  dispensation.  Yet,  as  fate  would  have  it, 
they  had  the  one  grief  of  having  no  children,  which  caused  it, 
in  years  to  come,  to-be  Mrs.  Gray’s  principal  occupation  in  life 
to  spoil  me.  By  the  time  I was  old  enough  to  be  spoiled,  Mr, 
Gray,  having  fairly  prospered  in  business,  and  come  to  Lon- 
don, was  established,  wdth  his  wife,  her  mother,  and  her 
mother’s  white  French  poodle.  Petite,  in  a dignified  house 
in  Camberwell  Grove.  An  entirely  happy  family  ; old  Mrs. 
Monro  as  sweet  as  her  daughter,  perhaps  slightly  wiser ; 
Bichard  rejoicing  in  them  both  with  all  his  heart ; and  Petite, 
having,  perhaps,  as  much  sense  as  any  two  of  them,  delighted 
in,  and  beloved  by  all  three. 

Their  house  v/as  near  the  top  of  the  Grove, — which  was  a 
real  grove  in  those  daj’S,  and  a grand  one,  some  three-quar- 
ters of  a mile  long,  steepishly  down  hill, — beautiful  in  per- 
spective as  an  unprecedently  “ long-drawn  aisle  ; ” trees,  elm, 
w^ych  elm,  sycamore  and  aspen,  the  branches  meeting  at  top  ; 
the  houses  on  each  side  with  trim  stone  pathways  up  to 
them,  through  small  plots  of  well-mown  grass  ; three  or  four 
storied,  mostly  in  grouped  terraces, — w^ell-built,  of  sober- 
colored  brick,  with  high  and  steep  slated  roof — not  gabled, 
but  polygonal ; all  well  to  do,  "well  kept,  well  broomed,  digni- 
fiedly  and  pleasantly  vulgar,  and  their  own  Grove-world  all  in 
all  to  them.  It  was  a pleasant  mile  and  a furlong  or  tw^o’s 
v/alk  from  Herne  Hill  to  the  Grove  ; and  whenever  Mrs.  Gray 
and  my  mother  had  anything  to  say  to  each  other,  they  walked 
— up  the  hill  or  down — to  say  it ; and  Mr.  Gray’s  house  was 
always  the  same  to  ns  as  our  own  at  any  time  of  day  or  night. 
But  our  house  not  at  all  so  to  the  Grays,  having  its  formalities 
inviolable  ; so  that  during  the  whole  of  childhood  I had  the 
sense  that  we  were,  in  some  way  or  other,  always  above  our 
friends  and  relations, — more  or  less  patronizing  everybody, 
favoring  them  by  our  advice,  instructing  them  by  our  exam- 
ple, and  called  upon,  by  what  was  due  both  to  ourselves,  and 
the  constitution  of  society,  to  keep  them  at  a certain  distance. 

With  one  exception  ; which  I have  deep  pleasure  in  re- 


PARNASSUS  AND  PLYNLIMMON 


87 


niembering.  In  the  first  chapter  of  the  “ Antiquary,”  the 
landlord  at  Queen’s  Ferry  sets  down  to  his  esteemed  guest  a 
bottle  of  Kobert  Cockburri’s  best  port  ; with  which  Fobert 
Cockburn  duly  supplied  Sir  Walter  himself,  being  at  that 
time,  if  not  the  largest,  the  leading  importer  of  the  finest 
Portugal  wine,  as  my  father  of  Spanish.  But  Mr.  Cockburn 
was  primarily  an  old  Edinburgh  gentleman,  and  only  b}^ 
condescension  a wine-merchant ; a man  of  great  power  and 
pleasant  sarcastic  wit,  moving  in  the  first  circles  of  Edin- 
burgh ; attached  to  my  father  by  many  links  of  association 
with  the  “ auld  toun,”  and  sincerely  respecting  him.  He  was 
much  the  stateliest  and  truest  piece  of  character  who  ever 
sate  at  our  merchant  feasts. 

Mrs.  Cockburn  was  even  a little  higher, — as  representative 
of  the  Scottish  lady  of  the  old  school, — indulgent  yet  to  the 
new.  She  had  been  Lord  Byron’s  first  of  first  loves  ; she 
was  the  Marj'  Buff  of  Lachin-y-Gair.  When  I first  remem- 
ber her,  still  extremely  beautiful  in  middle  age,  full  of  sense  ; 
and,  though  with  some  mixture  of  proud  severity,  extremely 
kind. 

They  had  two  sons,  Alexander  and  Archibald,  both  in  busi- 
ness wdth  their  father,  both  clever  and  energetic,  but  both 
distinctly  resolute — as  indeed  their  parents  desired — that 
the}'"  would  be  gentlemen  first,  salesmen  second  : a character 
much  to  be  honored  and  retained  among  us  ; nor  in  their 
case  the  least  ambitious  or  affected  : gentlemen  they  wmre, — 
born  so,  and  more  at  home  on  the  hills  than  in  the  counting- 
liouse,  and  withal  attentive  enough  to  their  business.  The 
house,  nevertheless,  did  not  become  all  that  it  might  have 
been  in  less  well-bred  hands. 

The  two  sons,  one  or  other,  often  dined  with  us,  and  were 
more  distinctly  friends  than  most  of  our  guests.  Alexander 
had  much  of  his  father’s  humor ; Archibald,  a fine,  young, 
dark  Highlander,  w^as  extremely  delightful  to  me,  and  took 
some  pains  wdth  me,  for  the  sake  of  my  love  of  Scott,  telling 
me  anything  about  fishing  or  deer-stalking  that  I cared  to 
listen  to.  For,  even  from  earliest  days,  I cared  to  listen  to 
the  adventures  of  other  people,  though  I never  coveted  any 


88 


PB^TERITA, 


for  myself.  I read  all  Captain  Marryat’s  novels,  without  ever 
wishing  to  go  to  sea ; traversed  the  field  of  Waterloo  without 
the  slightest  inclination  to  be  a soldier  ; went  on  ideal  fishing 
with  Isaac  Walton  without  ever  casting  a fly  ; and  knew 
Cooper’s  “ Deerslayer  ” and  “ Pathfinder  ” almost  by  heart, 
without  handling  anything  but  a popgun,  or  having  any  paths 
to  find  beyond  the  solitudes  of  Gipsy  Hill.  I used  some- 
times to  tell  myself  stories  of  campaigns  in  which  I was  an 
ingenious  general,  or  caverns  in  which  I discovered  veins  of 
gold  ; but  these  were  merely  to  fill  vacancies  of  fancy,  and 
had  no  reference  whatever  to  things  actual  or  feasible.  I 
already  disliked  growing  older, — never  expected  to  be  wiser, 
and  formed  no  more  plans  for  the  future  than  a little  black 
silkworm  does  in  the  middle  of  its  first  mulberry  leaf. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SCHAFFHAUSEN  AND  MILAN. 

The  visit  to  the  field  of  Waterloo,  spoken  of  by  chance  in 
last  chapter,  must  have  been  when  I was  five  years  old, — on 
the  occasion  of  papa  and  mamma’s  taking  a fancy  to  see  Paris 
in  its  festivities  following  the  coronation  of  Charles  X.  We 
stayed  several  weeks  in  Paris,  in  a quiet  family  inn,  and  then 
some  days  at  Brussels, — but  I have  no  memory  whatever  of 
intermediate  stages.  It  seems  to  me,  on  revision  of  those 
matin  times,  that  I was  very  slow  in  receiving  impressions, 
and  needed  to  stop  two  or  three  days  at  least  in  a place, 
before  I began  to  get  a notion  of  it ; but  the  notion,  once 
got,  was,  as  far  as  it  went,  always  right  ; and  since  I had  no 
occasion  afterward  to  modify  it,  other  impressions  fell  away 
from  that  principal  one,  and  disappeared  altogether.  Hence 
what  people  call  my  prejudiced  views  of  things, — which  are, 
in  fact,  the  exact  contrary,  namely,  post-judiced.  (I  do  not 
mean  to  introduce  this  word  for  general  service,  but  it  saves 
time  and  print  just  now.) 

Another  character  of  my  perceptions  I find  curiously  steady 


8CHAFFHAUSEN  AND  AIILAN 


89 


—that  I was  only  interested  by  things  near  me,  or  at  least 
clearly  visible  and  present.  I suppose  this  is  so  with  chil- 
dren generally  ; but  it  remained — and  remains — a part  of  my 
grown-up  temper.  In  this  visit  to  Paris,  I was  extremely 
taken  up  with  the  soft  red  cushions  of  the  armchairs,  which 
it  took  one  half  an  hour  to  subside  into  after  sitting  dov/n, — 
with  the  exquisitely  polished  floor  of  the  salon,  and  the  good- 
natured  French  “Boots”  (more  properly  “Brushes”),  who 
skated  over  it  in  the  morning  till  it  became  as  reflective  as  a 
mahogany  table, — with  the  pretty  court  full  of  flowers  and 
shrubs  in  beds  and  tubs,  between  our  rez-de-chaussee  win- 
dows and  the  outer  gate, — with  a nice  black  servant  belong- 
ing to  another  family,  who  used  to  catch  the  house-cat  for 
me  ; and  with  an  equally  good-natured  fille  de  chambre,  who 
used  to  catch  it  back  again,  for  fear  I should  tease  it,  (her  ex- 
perience of  English  boy-children  having  made  her  dubious  of 
my  intentions)  ; — all  these  things  and  people  I remember, — 
and  the  Tuileries  garden,  and  the  “ Tivoli  ” gardens,  wdiere 
my  father  took  me  up  and  down  a “ Russian  mountain,”  and 
I saw  fireworks  of  the  finest.  But  I remember  nothing  of  the 
Seine,  nor  of  Notre  Dame,  nor  of  anything  in  or  even  out 
of  the  town,  except  the  windmills  on  Montmartre. 

Similarly  at  Brussels.  I recollect  no  Hotel  de  Ville,  no 
stately  streets,  no  surprises,  or  interests,  except  only  the 
drive  to  Waterloo  and  slow  walk  over  the  field.  The  defacing 
mound  was  not  then  built — it  was  only  nine  years  since  the 
fight  ; and  each  bank  and  hollow  of  the  ground  was  still  a 
true  exponent  of  the  courses  of  charge  or  recoil.  Fastened 
in  my  mind  by  later  reading,  that  sig;ht  of  the  slope  of  battle 
remains  to  me  entirely  distinct,  while  the  results  of  a later 
examination  of  it  after  the  building  of  the  mound,  have  faded 
mostly  away. 

I must  also  note  that  the  rapture  of  getting  on  board  a 
steamer,  spoken  of  in  last  letter,  was  of  later  date  ; as  a child 
I cared  more  for  a beach  on  which  the  waves  broke,  or  sands 
in  which  I could  dig,  than  for  wide  sea.  There  was  no  “first 
sight  ” of  the  sea  for  me.  I had  gone  to  Scotland  in  Captain 
Spinks’  cutter,  then  a regular  passage  boat,  when  I was  only 


90 


PBu^TERITA, 


three  years  old;  but  the  weather  was  fine,  and  except  for 
the  pleasure  of  tattooing  myself  with  tar  among  the  ropes,  I 
might  as  well  have  been  ashore  ; but  I grew  into  the  sense 
of  ocean,  as  the  Earth  shaker,  by  the  rattling  beach,  and  lisp- 
ing sand. 

I had  meant,  also  in  this  place,  to  give  a word  or  two  to 
another  poor  relative,  Nanny  Clowsley,  an  entirely  cheerful 
old  woman,  who  lived,  with  a Dutch  clock  and  some  old  tea- 
cups, in  a single  room  (v/ith  small  bed  in  alcove)  on  the  third 
story  of  a gabled  house,  part  of  the  group  of  old  ones  lately 
pulled  down  on  Chelsea  side  of  Battersea  Bridge.  But  I had 
better  keej)  what  I have  to  say  of  Chelsea  well  together,  early 
and  late  ; only,  in  speaking  of  shingle,  I must  note  the  use 
to  me  of  the  view  out  of  Nanny  Clowsley’s  window  right  down 
upon  the  Thames  tide,  with  its  tossing  wherries  at  the  flow, 
and  stranded  barges  at  ebb. 

And  now,  I must  get  on,  and  come  to  the  real  first  sights 
of  several  things. 

I said  that,  for  our  English  tours,  Mr.  Telford  usually  lent 
us  his  chariot.  But  for  Switzerland,  now  taking  Mary,  we 
needed  stronger  wheels  and  more  room  ; and  for  this,  and  all 
following  tours  abroad,  the  first  preparation  and  the  begin- 
ning of  delight  was  the  choosing  a carriage  to  our  fancy, 
from  the  hireable  reserves  at  Mr.  Hopkinson's,  of  Long  Acre. 

The  poor  modern  slaves  and  simpletons  who  let  themselves 
be  dragged  like  cattle,  or  felled  timber,  through  the  countries 
they  imagine  themselves  visiting,  can  have  no  conception 
whatever  of  the  complex  joys,  and  ingenious  hopes,  connected 
with  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  the  travelling  carriage  in 
old  times.  The  mechanical  questions  first,  of  strength — easy 
rolling, — steady  and  safe  poise  of  persons  and  luggage  ; the 
general  stateliness  of  effect  to  be  obtained  for  the  abashing 
of  plebeian  beholders ; the  cunning  design  and  distribution 
of  store-cellars  under  the  seats,  secret  drawers  under  front 
windows,  invisible  pockets  under  padded  lining,  safe  from 
dust,  and  accessible  only  by  insidious  slits,  or  necromantic 
valves  like  Aladdin’s  trap-door  ; the  fitting  of  cushions  where 
they  would  not  slip,  the  rounding  of  corners  for  more  delicate 


SOHAFFIIAUSEN  AND  MILAN. 


91 


repose  ; the  prudent  attachments  and  springs  of  blinds ; the 
perfect  fitting  of  windows,  on  which  one-half  the  comfort  of 
a travelling  carriage  really  depends  ; and  the  adaptation  of  all 
these  concentrated  luxuries  to  the  probabilities  of  who  would 
sit  where,  in  the  little  apartment  which  was  to  be  virtually 
one’s  home  for  five  or  six  months  ; — all  this  was  an  imaginary 
journey  in  itself,  with  every  pleasure,  and  none  of  the  discom- 
fort, of  practical  travelling. 

On  the  grand  occasion  of  our  first  continental  journey — ■ 
which  was  meant  to  be  half  a year  long — the  carriage  was 
chosen  with,  or  in  addition  fitted  with,  a front  seat  outside 
for  my  father  and  Mar}^,  a dickey,  unusually  large,  for  Anne 
and  the  courier,  and  four  inside  seats,  though  those  in  front 
very  small,  that  papa  and  Mary  might  be  received  inside  in 
stress  of  weather.  I recollect,  when  we  had  finally  settled 
v/hich  carriage  w^e  would  have,  the  polite  Mr.  Hopkinson,  ad- 
vised of  my  dawning  literary  reputation,  asking  me  (to  the 
joy  of  my  father)  if  I could  translate  the  motto  of  the  former 
possessor,  under  his  painted  arms,— ea  nostra  voco,'’ — 
which  I accomplishing  successfully,  farther  wittily  observed 
that,  however  by  right  belonging  to  the  former  possessor, 
the  motto  was  with  greater  propriety  applicable  to  us. 

For  a family  carriage  of  this  solid  construction,  with  its 
luggage,  and  load  of  six  or  more  persons,  four  horses  were 
of  course  necessary  to  get  any  sufficient  W'ay  on  it ; and  half 
a dozen  such  teams  were  kept  at  every  post-house.  The 
modern  reader  may  perhaps  have  as  much  difficulty  in  realiz- 
ing these  savagely  and  clumsily  locomotive  periods,  though 
so  recent,  as  any  aspects  of  migratory  Saxon  or  Goth  ; and 
may  not  think  me  vainly  garrulous  in  their  description. 

The  French  horses,  and  more  or  less  those  on  all  the  great 
lines  of  European  travelling,  v/ere  properly  stout  trotting 
cart-horses,  well  up  to  their  v^rork  and  over  it ; untrimmed, 
long-tailed,  good-humoredly  licentious,  whinnying  and  frol- 
icking vAth  each  other  v/hen  they  had  a chance  ; sagaciously 
steady  to  their  work  ; obedient  to  the  voice  mostly,  to  the  rein 
only  for  more  explicitness  ; never  touched  by  the  whip,  which 
was  used  merely  to  express  the  driver’s  exultation  in  himself 


92 


PR^TERITA. 


and  them, — signal  obstructive  vehicles  in  front  out  of  the 
wajr,  and  advise  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  villages  and  towns 
traversed  on  the  day’s  journey,  that  persons  of  distinction 
were  honoring  them  by  their  transitory  presence.  If  every- 
thing was  right,  the  four  horses  were  driven  by  one  postilion 
riding  the  shaft  horse  ; but  if  the  horses  were  young,  or  the 
riders  unpractised,  there  was  a postilion  for  the  leaders  also. 
As  a rule,  there  were  four  steady  horses  and  a good  driver, 
rarel}^  drunk,  often  very  young,  the  men  of  stronger  build 
being  more  useful  for  other  w^ork,  and  any  clever  young  rider 
able  to  manage  the  well-trained  and  merry-minded  beasts,  be- 
sides being  lighter  on  their  backs.  Half  the  weight  of  the 
cavalier,  in  such  cases,  was  in  his  boots,  which  were  often 
brought  out  slung  from  the  saddle  like  two  buckets,  the  pos- 
tilion, after  the  horses  were  harnessed,  walking  along  the 
pole  and  getting  into  them. 

Scarcely  less  official,  for  a travelling  carriage  of  good  class 
than  its  postilions,  was  the  courier,  or  properly,  avant-courier, 
whoso  primary  office  it  was  to  ride  in  advance  at  a steady 
gallop,  and  order  the  horses  at  each  post-house  to  be  har- 
nessed and  ready  waiting,  so  that  no  time  might  be  lost 
between  stages.  His  higher  function  was  to  make  all  bar- 
gains and  pay  all  bills,  so  as  to  save  the  family  unbecoming 
cares  and  mean  anxieties,  besides  the  trouble  and  disgrace  of 
trying  to  speak  French  or  any  other  foreign  language.  He, 
farther,  knew  the  good  inns  in  each  town,  and  all  the  good 
rooms  in  each  inn,  so  that  he  could  write  beforehand  to 
secure  those  suited  to  his  family.  He  was  also,  if  an  intelli- 
gent man  and  high-class  courier,  well  acquainted  with  the 
proper  sights  to  be  seen  in  each  town,  and  with  all  the  occult 
means  to  be  used  for  getting  sight  of  those  that  weren’t  to 
be  seen  by  the  vulgar.  Murray,  the  reader  will  remember, 
did  not  exist  in  those  days ; the  courier  was  a private  Murray, 
who  knew,  if  he  had  any  wit,  not  the  things  to  be  seen  only, 
but  those  you  would  yourself  best  like  to  see,  and  gave 
instructions  to  your  valet-de-place  accordingly,  interfering 
only  as  a higher  power  in  cases  of  difficulty  needing  to  be 
overcome  by  money  or  tact.  He  invariably  attended  the 


SGHAFFHAU8EN  AND  MILAN. 


93 


ladies  in  their  shopping  expeditions,  took  them  to  the  fash- 
ionable shops,  and  arranged  as  he  thought  proper  the  prices 
of  articles.  Lastly,  he  knew,  of  course,  all  the  other  high- 
class  couriers  on  the  road,  and  told  you,  if  you  wished  to 
know,  all  the  people  of  consideration  who  chanced  to  be  with 
you  in  the  inn. 

My  father  would  have  considered  it  an  insolent  and  revo- 
liiiionaiy  trespass  on  the  privileges  of  the  nobility  to  have 
mounted  his  courier  to  ride  in  advance  of  us ; besides  that, 
wisely  liberal  of  liis  money  for  comfort  and  pleasure,  he  never 
would  have  paid  the  cost  of  an  extra  horse  for  show.  The 
horses  'were,  therefore,  ordered  in  advance,  when  possible,  by 
the  postilions  of  any  preceding  carriage  (or,  otherwise,  we 
did  not  mind  waiting  till  they  were  harnessed),  and  we  carried 
our  courier  behind  us  in  the  dickey  with  inline,  being  in  ail 
his  other  functions  and  accomplishments  an  indispensable 
luxury  to  us.  Indispensable,  first,  because  none  of  us  could 
speak  anything  but  French,  and  that  only  enough  to  ask  our 
way  in  ; for  all  specialties  of  bargaining,  or  details  of  informa- 
tion, we  were  helpless,  even  in  France, — and  might  as  well 
liavo  been  migratory  sheep,  or  geese,  in  Switzerland  or  Italy. 
Indispensable,  secondly,  to  my  father’s  peace  of  mind,  be- 
cause, with  perfect  liberality  of  temper,  he  had  a great  dislike 
to  being  over  reached.  He  perfectly  well  knew  that  his 
courier  would  have  his  commission,  and  allowed  it  without 
question  ; but  he  knew  also  that  his  courier  would  not  be 
cheated  by  other  people,  and  was  content  in  liis  representa- 
tive. Not  for  ostentation,  but  for  real  enjoyment  and  change 
of  sensation  from  his  suburban  life,  my  father  liked  large 
rooms  ; and  my  mother,  in  mere  continuance  of  her  or- 
dinary and  essential  habits,  liked  clean  ones ; clean,  and 
large,  means  a good  inn  and  a first  floor.  Also  my  father 
liked  a view  from  his  windows,  and  reasonably  said,  “Why 
should  we  travel  to  see  less  than  we  may  ? ” — so  that  meant 
first  ^QOT  front.  Also  my  father  liked  delicate  cookery,  just 
because  he  was  one  of  the  smallest  and  rarest  eaters  ; and 
my  mother  liked  good  meat.  That  meant,  dinner  without 
limiting  price,  in  reason.  Also,  though  my  father  never  went 


94 


PB^TEBITA. 


into  society,  lie  all  tlie  more  enjoyed  getting  a glimpse,  rever< 
entially,  of  fashionable  people — I mean,  people  of  rank, — he 
scorned  fashion,  and  it  was  a great  thing  to  him  to  feel  that 

Lord  and  Lady  were  on  the  opposite  landing,  and 

that,  at  any  moment,  he  might  conceivably  meet  and  pass 
them  on  the  stairs.  Salvador,  duly  advised,  or  penetratively 
perceptive  of  these  dispositions  of  my  father,  entirely  pleas- 
ing and  admirable  to  the  courier  mind,  had  carte-blanche  in 
all  administrative  functions  and  bargains.  We  found  our 
pleasant  rooms  always  ready,  our  good  horses  always  w^aiting, 
everybody  took  their  hats  off  when  we  arrived  and  departed. 
Salvador  presented  his  accounts  weekly,  and  they  were  set- 
tled v/ithout  a word  of  demur. 

To  all  these  conditions  of  luxury  and  felicity,  can  the 
modern  steam-puffed  tourist  conceive  the  added  ruling  and 
culminating  one — that  we  v/ere  never  in  a hurry?  coupled 
with  the  correlative  power  of  always  starting  at  the  hour  we 
chose,  and  that  if  we  weren’t  ready,  the  horses  would  wait  ? 
As  a rule,  we  breakfasted  at  our  own  home  time— -eight ; the 
horses  were  pawing  and  neighing  at  the  door  (under  the  arch- 
way, I should  have  said)  by  nine.  Between  nine  and  three, — 
reckoning  seven  miles  an  hour,  including  stoppages,  for  mini- 
mum pace, — we  had  done  our  forty  to  fifty  miles  of  journej^, 
sate  down  to  dinner  at  four, — and  I had  tv/o  hours  of  delicious 
exploring  by  myself  in  the  evening  ; ordered  in  ]3unctually  at 
seven  to  tea,  and  finishing  my  sketches  till  half-past  nine, — 
bedtime. 

On  longer  days  of  journey  "we  started  at  six,  and  did  twenty 
miles  before  breakfast,  coming  in  for  four  o’clock  dinner  as 
usual.  In  a quite  long  day  we  made  a second  stop,  dining  at 
any  nice  village  hostelry,  and  coming  in  for  late  tea,  after  do- 
ing our  eighty  or  ninety  miles.  But  these  pushes  were  seldom 
made  unless  to  get  to  some  pleasant  cathedral  town  for  Sun- 
day, or  pleasant  Alpine  village.  We  never  travelled  on  Sun- 
day ; my  father  and  I nearly  always  went — as  philosophers — 
to  mass,  in  the  morning,  and  ray  mother,  in  pure  good-nature 
to  us,  (I  scarcely  ever  saw  in  her  a trace  of  feminine  curiosity,) 
would  join  with  us  in  some  such  profanity  as  a drive  on  the 


8GHAFFHAUSEN  AND  MILAN 


95 


Corso,  or  the  lake,  in  the  afternoon.  But  we  all,  even  my 
father,  liked  a walk  in  the  fields  better,  round  an  Alpine 
chalet  village. 

At  page  70  I threatened  more  accurate  note  of  my  first 
impressions  of  Switzerland  and  Italy  in  1833.  Of  customary 
Calais  I have  something  to  say  later  on, — here  I note  only  our 
going  up  Ehine  to  Strasburg,  where,  with  all  its  miracles  of 
building,  I was  already  wise  enough  to  feel  the  cathedral  stiff 
and  iron-worky  ; but  was  greatly  excited  and  impressed  by 
the  high  roofs  and  rich  fronts  of  the  wooden  houses,  in  their 
sudden  indication  of  nearness  to  Switzerland  ; and  especially 
by  finding  the  scene  so  admirably  expressed  by  Prout  in  the 
oGth  plate  of  his  Flanders  and  Germany,  still  uninjured.'9And 
then,  with  Salvador  was  held  council  in  the  inn-parlor  of 
Strasburg,  whether — it  was  then  tbe  Friday  afternoon— we 
should  push  on  to-morrow  for  our  Sunday’s  rest  to  Basle,  or 
to  Scliaffhausen. 

How  much  depended — if  ever  anything  “depends”  on 
anything  else, — on  the  issue  of  that  debate  1 Salvador  in- 
clined to  the  straight  and  level  Rhine-side  road,  with  the 
luxury  of  the  Three  Kings  attainable  by  sunset.  But  at 
Basle,  it  had  to  be  admitted,  there  were  no  Alps  in  sight,  no 
cataract  within  hearing,  and  Salvador  honorably  laid  before 
us  the  splendid  alternative  possibility  of  reaching,  by  traverse 
of  the  hilly  road  of  the  Black  Forest,  the  gates  of  Schaff- 
hausen  itself,  before  they  closed  for  the  night. 

The  Black  Forest!  The  fall  of  Schaff hausen ! The  chain 
of  the  Alps  ! within  one’s  grasp  for  Sunday  1 What  a Sunday, 
instead  of  customary  Walworth  and  the  Dulwich  fields  1 My 
impassioned  petition  at  last  carried  it,  and  the  earliest  morn- 
ing saw  us  trotting  over  the  bridge  of  boats  to  Kehl,  and  in 
the  eastern  light  I w^ell  remember  watching  the  line  of  the 
Black  Forest  hills  enlarge  and  rise,  as  we  crossed  the  plain  of 
the  Rhine.  “Gates  of  the  hills  opening  for  me  to  a new 
life — to  cease  no  more,  except  at  the  Gates  of  the  Hills 
whence  one  returns  not. 

And  so,  we  reached  the  base  of  the  Schwartzwald,  and  en- 
tered an  ascending  dingle  ; and  scarcely,  I think,  a quarter  of 


96 


PUMTERITA. 


nn  Lour  after  entering,  saw  our  first  “ Swiss  cottage.”*  How 
much  it  meant  to  all  of  us, — how  much  prophesied  to  me,  no 
modern  traveller  could  the  least  conceive,  if  I spent  days  in 
trying  to  tell  him.  A sort  of  triumphant  shriek — like  all  the 
railway  whistles  going  off  at  once  at  Clapham  Junction — hits 
gone  up  from  the  Fooldom  of  Europe  at  the  destruction  of 
the  myth  of  William  Tell.  To  us,  every  word  of  it  was  true 
— but  mythically  luminous  with  more  than  mortal  truth  ; and 
here,  under  the  black  woods,  glowed  the  visible,  beautiful, 
tangible  testimony  to  it  in  the  purple  larch  timber,  carved  to 
exquisiteness  by  the  joy  of  peasant  life,  continuous,  motion- 
less here  in  the  pine  shadow  on  its  ancestral  turf, — unas- 
saile^  and  unassailing,  in  the  blessedness  of  righteous  poverty, 
of  religious  peace. 

The  myth  of  William  Tell  is  destroyed  forsooth  ? and  you 
have  tunnelled  Gothard,  and  filled,  it  may  be,  the  Bay  of 
Uri ; — and  it  was  all  for  you  and  your  sake  that  the  grapes 
dropped  blood  from  the  press  of  St.  Jacob,  and  the  pine  club 
struck  down  horse  and  helm  in  Morgarten  Glen? 

Difficult  enough  for  you  to  imagine,  that  old  travellers’ 
time  when  Switzerland  was  yet  the  land  of  the  Swiss,  and  the 
Alps  had  never  been  trod  by  foot  of  man.  Steam,  never 
heard  of  yet,  but  for  short  fair  weather  crossing  at  sea  (were 
there  paddle  packets  across  Atlantic  ? I forget).  Any  way, 
the  roads  by  land  were  safe  ; and  entered  once  into  this 
mountain  Paradise,  we  wound  on  through  its  balmy  glens, 
I^ast  cottage  after  cottage  on  their  lawns,  still  glistening  in 
the  dew. 

The  road  got  into  more  barren  heights  by  the  midday, 
tlie  hills  arduous ; once  or  twice  we  had  to  wait  for  horses, 
and  we  were  still  twenty  miles  from  Schaffhausen  at  sunset ; it 
-was  past  midnight  when  we  reached  her  closed  gates.  The 
disturbed  porter  had  the  grace  to  open  them — not  quite  wide 
enough ; we  carried  away  one  of  our  lamps  in  collision  with 
the  slanting  bar  as  we  drove  through  the  arch.  How  much 


* Swiss,  in  character  and  real  liahit— the  political  boundaries  are  of 
no  moment. 


8GUAFFHAUSEN  AND  MILAN 


97 


happier  the  privilege  of  dreamily  entering  a mediaeval  city, 
though  with  the  loss  of  a lamp,  than  the  free  ingress  of  being 
jammed  between  a dray  and  a tram-car  at  a railroad  station  ! 

It  is  strange  that  I but  dimly  recollect  the  following  morn- 
ing ; I fancy  we  must  have  gone  to  some  sort  of  church  or 
other  ; and  certainly,  part  of  the  day  went  in  admiring  the 
bow-windows  projecting  into  the  clean  streets.  None  of  us 
seem'  to  have  thought  the  Alps  would  be  visible  without  pro- 
fane exertion  in  climbing  hills.  We  dined  at  four,  as  ilaual, 
and  the  evening  being  entirely  fine,  went  out  to  walk,  all  of 
us, — my  father  and  mother  and  Mary  and  I. 

We  must  have  still  spent  some  time  in  town-seeing,  for  it 
was  drawing  toward  sunset  when  wm  got  up  to  some  sort  of 
garden  promenade — west  of  the  town,  I believe  ; and  high 
above  the  Rhine,  so  as  to  command  the  open  country  across 
it  to  the  south  and  west.  At  which  open  country  of  low 
undulation,  far  into  blue, — gazing  as  at  one  of  our  own 
distances  from  Malvern  of  Worcestershire,  or  Dorking  of 
Kent, — suddenly — behold — beyond. 

There  was  no  thought  in  any  of  us  for  a moment  of  their 
being  clouds.  They  wmre  clear  as  crystal,  sharp  on  the  pure 
horizon  sky,  and  already  tinged  wdth  rose  by  the  sinking  sun. 
Infinitely  beyond  all  that  we  had  ever  thought  or  dreamed, 
— the  seen  walls  of  lost  Eden  could  not  have  been  more 
beautiful  to  us ; not  more  awful,  round  heaven,  the  walls  of 
sacred  Death. 

It  is  not  possible  to  imagine,  in  any  time  of  the  world,  a 
more  blessed  entrance  into  life,  for  a child  of  such  a tempera- 
ment as  mine.  True,  the  temperament  belonged  to  the  age : 
a very  few  years, — within  the  hundred, — before  that,  no  child 
could  have  been  born  to  care  for  mountains,  or  for  the  men 
that  lived  among  them,  in  that  way.  Till  Rousseau’s  time, 
there  had  been  no  sentimental”  love  of  nature;  and  till 
Scott’s,  no  such  apprehensive  love  of  “all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men,”  not  in  the  soul  merely,  but  in  the  flesh.  St.  Bernard 
of  La  Fontaine,  looking  out  to  Mont  Blanc  with  his  child’s 
eyes,  sees  above  Mont  Blanc  the  Madonna  ; St.  Bernard  of 
Talloires,  not  the  Lake  of  Annecy,  but  the  dead  between 
7 


9S 


PB^TEIUTA. 


Martigny  and  Aosta.  But  for  me,  the  Alps  and  their  people 
were  alike  beautiful  in  their  snow,  and  their  humanity  ; and 
I wanted,  neither  for  them  nor  myself,  sight  of  any  thrones 
in  lieaven  but  the  rocks,  or  of  any  spirits  in  heaven  but  the 
clouds. 

Thus,  in  perfect  health  of  life  and  fire  of  heart,  not  wanting 
to  be  anything  but  the  boy  I was,  not  wanting  to  have  any- 
thing more  than  I had  ; knowing  of  sorrow  only  just  so  much 
as  make  life  serious  to  me,  not  enough  to  slacken  in  the 
leas^  its  sinews  ; and  with  so  much  of  science  mixed  with 
feeling  as  to  make  the  sight  of  the  Alps  not  only  the  revela- 
tion of  the  beauty  of  the  earth,  but  the  opening  of  the  first 
page  of  its  volume, — I went  down  that  evening  from  the 
garden-terrace  of  Schaffhausen  with  my  destiny  fixed  in  all 
of  it  that  was  to  be  sacred  and  useful.  To  that  terrace,  and 
the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  my  heart  and  faith  return 
to  this  da}%  in  every  impulse  that  is  yet  nobly  alive  in  them, 
and  every  thought  that  has  in  it  help  or  peace. 

The  morning  after  that  Sunday’s  eve  at  Schaffhausen  w^as 
also  cloudless,  and  sve  drove  early  to  the  falls,  seeing  again 
the  chain  of  the  Alps  by  morning  light,  and  learning,  at 
Laiiffen,  what  an  Alpine  river  was.  Coming  out  of  the  gorge 
of  Balstall,  I got  another  ever  memorable  sight  of  the  chain 
of  the  Alps,  and  these  distant  views,  never  seen  by  the  mod- 
ern traveller,  taught  me,  and  made  me  feel,  more  than  the 
close  marvels  of  Thun  and  Interlachen.  It  was  again  fortu- 
nate that  we  took  the  grandest  pass  into  Italy, — that  the  first 
ravine  of  the  main  Alps  I saw  was  the  Via  Mala,  and  the  first 
lake  of  Italy,  Como. 

We  took  boat  on  the  little  recessed  lake  of  Chiavenna,  and 
rowed  down  the  whole  way  of  waters,  passing  another  Sunday 
at  Cadenabbia,  and  then,  from  villa  to  villa,  across  the  lake, 
and  across,  to  Como,  and  so  to  Milan  by  Monza. 

It  was  then  full,  though  early,  summer  time ; and  the  first 
impression  of  Italy  always  ought  to  be  in  her  summer.  It 
was  also  well  that,  though  my  heart  was  with  the  Swiss 
cottager,  the  artificial  taste  in  me  had  been  mainly  formed 
by  Turner’s  rendering  of  those  very  scenes,  in  Bogers’  “ Italy.” 


SCIIAFFHAUSEN  AND  MILAN. 


99 


The  Lake  of  Como,”  the  two  moonlight  villas,  and  the 
“ Farewell,”  had  prepared  me  for  all  that  was  beautiful  and 
right  in  the  terraced  gardens,  proportioned  arcades,  and 
white  spaces  of  sunny  wall,  w’hich  have  in  general  no  honest 
charm  for  the  English  mind.  But  to  me,  they  were  almost 
native  through  Turner, — familiar  at  once,  and  revered.  I 
had  no  idea  then  of  the  Kenaissance  evil  in  them  ; they  were 
associated  only  with  what  I had  been  told  of  the  “divine  art” 
of  Eaphael  and  Leonardo,  and,  by  my  ignorance  of  dates, 
associated  wdth  the  stories  of  Shakespeare.  Portia’s  villa, 
— Juliet’s  palace, — I thought  to  have  been  like  these. 

Also,  as  noticed  in  the  epilogue  to  reprint  of  vol.  ii.  of 
“Modern  Painters,”  I had  always  a quite  true  perception  of  size, 
whether  in  mountains  or  buildings,  and  with  the  perception, 
joy  in  it ; so  that  the  vastness  of  scale  in  the  Milanese  pala- 
ces, and  the  “mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires,”  of  the 
duomo,  impressed  me  to  the  full  at  once  : and  not  having  yet 
the  taste  to  discern  good  Gothic  from  bad,  the  mere  richness 
and  lineness  of  lace-like  tracery  against  the  sky  was  a con- 
summate rapture  to  me — how  much  more  getting  up  to  it 
and  climbing  among  it,  with  the  Monte  Rosa  seen  between 
its  pinnacles  across  the  plain  ! 

I had  been  partly  prepared  for  this  view  by  the  admirable 
presentment  of  it  in  London,  a year  or  two  before,  in  an  exhi- 
bition, of  w'hich  the  vanishing  has  been  in  later  life  a greatly 
felt  loss  to  me, — Burford’s  panorama  in  Leicester  Square, 
wJiich  was  an  educational  institution  of  the  highest  and 
purest  value,  and  ought  to  have  been  supported  by  the  Gov- 
ernment as  one  of  the  most  beneficial  school  instruments  in 
London.  There  I had  seen,  exquisitely  painted,  the  view 
from  the  roof  of  Milan  Cathedral,  when  I had  no  hope  of  ever 
seeing  the  reality,  but  with  a joy  and  wonder  of  the  deepest ; 
— and  now  to  be  there  indeed,  made  deep  w^onder  become 
fathomless. 

Again,  most  fortunately,  the  weather  was  clear  and  cloud- 
less all  day  long,  and  as  the  sun  drew  westward,  we  w^ere 
able  to  drive  to  the  Corso,  where,  at  that  time,  the  higher 
Milanese  were  happy  and  proud  as  ours  in  their  park,  and 


100 


PRMTEHITA. 


wlience,  no  railway  station  intervening,  the  whole  chain  of  the 
Alps  was  visible  on  one  side,  and  the  beautiful  city  with  its 
dominant  frost'Crystalline  Duoino  on  the  other.  Then  the 
drive  home  in  the  open  carriage  through  the  quiet  twilight, 
up  the  long  streets,  and  round  the  base  of  tlie  Duomo,  the 
smooth  pavement  under  the  wheels  adding  with  its  silentness 
to  the  sense  of  dream  wonder  in  it  all, — the  perfect  air  in 
absolute  calm,  the  just  seen  majesty  of  encompassing  Alps, 
the  perfectness — so  it  seemed  to  me — and  purity,  of  the  sweet, 
stately,  stainless  marble  against  the  sky.  What  more,  wdiat 
else  could  be  asked  of  seemingly  immutable  good,  in  this 
mutable  world  ? 

I wish  in  general  to  avoid  interference  with  the  reader’s 
judgment  on  the  matters  which  I endeavor  serenely  to  nar- 
rate ; but  may,  I think,  here  be  pardoned  for  observing  to 
him  the  advantage,  in  a certain  way,  of  the  contemplative 
abstraction  from  the  world  which,  during  this  early  conti- 
nental travelling,  was  partly  enforced  by  our  ignorance,  and 
partly  secured  by  our  love  of  comfort.  There  is  something 
peculiarly  delightful — nay,  delightful  inconceivably  by  the 
modern  German-plated  and  French-polished  tourist,  in  pass- 
ing through  the  streets  of  a foreign  city  without  understand- 
ing a word  that  anybody  says  ! One’s  ear  for  all  sound  of 
voices  then  becomes  entirely  impartial ; one  is  not  diverted 
by  the  meaning  of  s}dlables  from  recognizing  the  absolute 
guttural,  liquid,  or  honeyed  quality  of  them ; while  the  gest- 
ure of  the  body  and  the  expression  of  the  face  have  the  same 
value  for  you  that  they  have  in  a pantomime  ; every  scene 
becomes  a melodious  opera  to  you,  or  a picturesquely  inartic- 
ulate Punch.  Consider,  also,  the  gain  in  so  consistent  tran- 
quillity. Most  young  people  nowadays,  or  even  lively  old 
ones,  travel  more  in  search  of  adventures  than  of  informa- 
tion. One  of  my  most  valued  records  of  recent  wandering  is 
a series  of  sketches  by  an  amiable  and  extremely  elever  girl, 
of  the  things  that  happened  to  her  people  and  herself  every 
day  that  they  were  abroad.  Here  it  is  brother  Harry,  and 
there  it  is  mamma,  and  now  paterfamilias,  and  now  her  little 
graceful  self,  and  anon  her  merry  or  remonstrant  sisterhood, 


rArA  AND  MAMMA. 


101 


who  meet  with  enchanting  hardships,  and  enviable  misadvent- 
ures ; bind  themselves  with  fetters  of  friendship,  and  glance 
into  sj)arklings  of  amourette,  with  any  sort  of  people  in  con- 
ical bats  and  fringy  caps : and  it  is  all  very  delightful  and 
condescending  ; and,  of  course,  things  are  learnt  about  the 
country  that  way  which  can  be  learned  in  no  other  way,  but 
only  about  that  part  of  it  which  interests  itself  in  you,  or 
which  you  have  pleasure  in  being  acquainted  with.  Virtu- 
ally, you  are  thinking  of  yourself  all  the  time  ; you  necessa- 
rily talk  to  the  cheerful  people,  not  to  the  sad  ones  ; and  your 
head  is  for  the  most  part  vividly  taken  up  with  very  little 
things.  I don’t  say  that  our  isolation  was  meritorious,  or  that 
people  in  general  should  know  no  language  but  their  own. 
Yet  the  meek  ignorance  has  these  advantages.  We  did  not 
travel  for  adventures,  nor  for  company,  but  to  see  with  our 
e^’es,  and  to  measure  with  our  hearts.  If  you  have  sympathy, 
the  aspect  of  humanity  is  more  true  to  the  depths  of  it  than 
its  words;  and  even  in  my  own  land,  the  things  in  which  I 
have  been  least  deceived  are  those  which  I have  learned  as 
their  Spectator. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PAPA  AND  MAMMA. 

The  work  to  which,  as  partly  above  described,  I set  myself 
during  the  year  1834,  under  the  excitement  remaining  from 
my  fo}-eigii  travels,  was  in  four  distinct  directions,  in  any  one 
of  which  m}^  strength  might  at  that  time  have  been  fixed  by 
definite  encouragement.  There  was  first  the  effort  to  express 
sentiment  in  rhyme  ; the  sentiment  being  really  genuine, 
under  all  the  superficial  vanities  of  its  display  ; and  the  rhymes 
rhythmic,  only  without  any  ideas  in  them.  It  was  impossible 
to  explain,  either  to  myself  or  other  people,  why  I liked 
staring  at  the  sea,  or  scampering  on  a moor ; but,  one  had 
pleasure  in  making  some  sort  of  melodious  noise  about  it,  like 
the  'waves  themselves,  or  the  peev/its.  Then,  secondly,  there 


102 


PB^TERITA. 


was  the  real  love  of  engraving,  and  of  such  characters  of  sur- 
face and  shade  as  it  could  give.  I have  never  seen  drawing, 
by  a youth,  so  entirely  industrious  in  delicate  line  ; and  there 
was  really  the  making  of  a fine  landscape,  or  figure  outline, 
engraver  in  me.  But  fate  having  ordered  otherwise,  I mourn 
the  loss  to  engraving  less  than  that  before  calculated,  or 
rather  incalculable,  one,  to  geology  ! Then  there  was,  thirdly, 
the  violent  instinct  for  architecture ; but  I never  could  have 
built  or  carved  anything,  because  I was  without  power  of 
design  ; and  have  perhaps  done  as  much  in  that  direction  as 
it  was  worth  doing  with  so  limited  faculty.  And  then, 
fourthly,  there  was  the  unabated,  never  to  be  abated,  geo- 
logical instinct,  now  fastened  on  the  Alps.  My  fifteenth 
birthday  gift  being  left  to  my  choice,  I asked  for  Saussure’s 
“Voyages  dans  les  Alpes,”  and  thenceforward  began  pro- 
gressive work,  carrying  on  my  mineralogical  dictionary  by  the 
help  of  Jameson’s  three-volume  “ Mineralogy,”  (an  entirely 
clear  and  serviceable  book  ; ) comparing  his  descriptions  wdth 
the  minerals  in  the  British  Museum,  and  writing  my  own 
more  eloquent  and  exhaustive  accounts  in  a shorthand  of 
many  ingeniously  symbolic  characters,  which  it  took  me  much 
longer  to  write  my  descriptions  in,  than  in  common  text,  and 
which  neither  I nor  anybody  else  could  read  a word  of,  after- 
w^ard. 

Such  being  the  quadrilateral  plan  of  my  fortifiable  disposi- 
tions, it  is  time  now  to  explain,  with  such  clew  as  I have  found 
to  them,  the  somewhat  peculiar  character  and  genius  of  both 
my  parents  ; the  influence  of  which  was  more  important  upon 
me,  then,  and  far  on  into  life,  than  any  external  conditions, 
either  of  friendship  or  tutorship,  whether  at  the  University, 
or  in  the  world. 

It  was,  in  the  first  place,  a matter  of  essential  weight  in  the 
determination  of  subsequent  lines,  not  only  of  labor  but  of 
thought,  that  while  my  father,  as  before  told,  gave  me  the 
best  example  of  emotional  reading, — reading,  observe,  proper, 
not  recitation,  which  he  disdained,  and  I disliked, — my  mother 
was  both  able  to  teach  me,  and  resolved  that  I should  learn, 
absolute  accuracy  of  diction  and  precision  of  accent  in  prose ; 


rAPA  AND  MA3IMA. 


103 


and  made  me  know,  as  soon  as  I could  speak  plain,  what  I 
have  in  all  later  years  tried  to  enforce  on  my  readers,  that 
accuracy  of  diction  means  accuracy  of  sensation,  and  precis- 
ion of  accent,  precision  of  feeling.  Trained,  herself  in  girl- 
hood, only  at  Mrs.  Rice’s  country  school,  my  mother  had 
there  learned  severely  right  principles  of  truth,  charity,  and 
liousewifery,  with  punctilious  respect  for  the  purity  of  that 
English  which  in  her  home-surroundings  she  perceived  to  be 
by  no  means  as  undefiled  as  the  ripples  of  Wandel.  She  was 
the  daughter,  as  aforesaid,  of  the  early  widowed  landlady  of 
the  King’s  Head  Inn  and  Tavern,  which  still  exists,  or  existed 
a year  or  two  since,  presenting  its  side  to  Croydon  market- 
place, its  front  and  entrance  door  to  the  narrow  alley  which 
descends,  steep  for  pedestrians,  impassable  to  carriages,  from 
the  High  Street  to  the  lower  town. 

Thus  native  to  the  customs  and  dialect  of  Croydon  Agora, 
my  mother,  as  I now  read  her,  must  have  been  an  extremely 
intelligent,  admirably  practical,  and  naively  ambitious  girl ; 
keeping,  without  contention,  the  headship  of  her  class,  and 
availing  herself  with  steady  discretion  of  every  advantage  the 
country  school  and  its  modest  mistress  could  offer  her.  I 
never  in  her  after-life  heard  her  speak  with  regret,  and  seldom 
without  respectful  praise,  of  any  part  of  the  discipline  of 
Mrs.  Rice. 

I do  not  know  for  what  reason,  or  under  what  conditions, 
my  mother  went  to  live  with  my  Scottish  grandfather  and 
grandmother,  first  at  Edinburgh,  and  then  at  the  house  of 
Bower’s  Well,  on  the  slope  of  the  Hill  of  Kinnoul,  above 
Perth.  I was  stupidly  and  heartlessly  careless  of  the  past 
history  of  my  family  as  long  as  I could  have  learnt  it ; not  till 
after  my  mother’s  death  did  I begin  to  desire  to  know  what  I 
could  never  more  be  told. 

But  certainly  the  change,  for  her,  was  into  a higher  sphere 
of  society, — that  of  real,  though  sometimes  eccentric,  and  fre- 
quently poor,  gentlemen  and  gentlew^omen.  She  must  then 
have  been  rapidly  growing  into  a tall,  handsome,  and  very 
finely  made  girl,  with  a beautiful  mild  firmness  of  expression ; 
a faultless  and  accomplished  housekeeper,  and  a natural, 


104 


PUMTERITA, 


essential,  unassailable,  yet  inoffensive,  prude.  I never  heard 
a single  word  of  any  sentiment,  accident,  admiration,  or  affec- 
tion disturbing  the  sereiie  tenor  of  her  Scottish  stewardship  ; 
yet  I noticed  that  she  never  spoke  without  some  slight  shy- 
ness before  my  father,  nor  without  some  pleasure,  to  other 
people,  of  Dr.  Thomas  Brown. 

That  the  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  w^as  a frequent 
guest  at  my  grandmother’s  tea-table,  and  fond  of  benignantly 
arguing  with  Miss  Margaret,  is  evidence  enough  of  the  posi- 
tion she  held  in  Edinburgli  circles  ; her  household  skills  and 
duties  never  therefore  neglected — rather,  if  anything,  still 
too  scrupulously  practised.  Once,  when  she  had  put  her 
white  frock  on  for  dinner,  and  hurried  to  the  kitchen  to  give 
final  glance  at  the  state  and  order  of  things  there,  old  Mause, 
having  run  against  the  white  frock  with  a black  saucepan, 
and  been,  it  seems,  rebuked  by  her  young  mistress  with  too 
little  resignation  to  the  will  of  Providence  in  that  matter, 
shook  her  head  sorrowfully,  saying,  “ Ah,  Miss  Margaret,  ye 
are  just  like  Martha,  carefu’  and  troubled  about  mony  things.” 

'When  my  mother  was  thus,  at  twenty,  in  a Desdemoua-like 
prime  of  womanhood,  intent  on  highest  moral  philosophy, — 
“ though  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ” — 
my  father  waxs  a dark-e}^ed,  brilliantly  active,  and  sensitive 
youth  of  sixteen.  Margaret  became  to  him  an  absolutely  res- 
pected and  admired — mildly  liked — governess  and  confidante. 
Her  sympathy  was  necessary  to  him  in  all  his  flashingly  tran- 
sient amours  ; her  advice  in  all  domestic  business  or  sorrow, 
and  her  encouragement  in  all  his  plans  of  life. 

These  xvere  already  determined  for  commerce  ; — yet  not  to 
the  abandonment  of  liberal  study.  He  had  learned  Latin 
thoroughly,  though  with  no  large  range  of  reading,  under  the 
noble  traditions  of  Adams  at  the  Pligh  School  of  Edinburgh  : 
while,  by  the  then  living  and  universal  influence  of  Sir  "Wal- 
ter, every  scene  of  his  native  city  was  exalted  in  his  imagina- 
tion by  the  purest  poetry,  and  the  proudest  history,  that  ever 
hallowed  or  haunted  the  streets  and  rocks  of  a brightly  in- 
habited capital.  I have  neither  space,  nor  wish,  to  extend  my 
proposed  account  of  things  that  have  been,  by  records  of  cor- 


PAPA  AND  MAMMA. 


105 


respondence  ; — it  is  too  much  the  habit  of  modern  biogra- 
phers to  confuse  epistolary  talk  with  vital  fact.  But  the  follow- 
ing letter  from  Dr.  Thomas  Brown  to  my  father,  at  this  criti- 
cal juncture  of  his  life,  must  be  read,  in  part  as  a testimony 
to  the  position  ho  already  held  among  the  youtlis  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  yet  more  as  explaining  some  points  of  his  blended 
character,  of  the  deepest  significance  afterward,  both  to  him- 
self and  to  me. 

“8,  N.  St.  David’s  Sthekt,  Edinburgh, 
“February  18th,  1807. 

“My  dear  Sir:  When  I look  at  the  date  of  the  letter 
which  you  did  me  the  honor  to  send  me  as  your  adviser  in 
literary  matters — an  office  which  a proficient  like  you  scarcely 
requires — I am  quite  ashamed  of  the  interval  which  I have 
suffered  to  elapse.  I can  truly  assure  you,  however,  that  :*■. 
has  been  unavoidable,  and  has  not  arisen  from  any  want  of 
interest  in  your  intellectual  progress.  Even  when  you  were 
a mere  lioy  I Avas  much  delighted  with  your  early  zeal  and 
attainments ; and  for  your  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  ex- 
cellent mother’s,  I have  always  looked  to  you  with  great 
regard,  and  with  the  belief  that  you  would  distinguish  your- 
self in  whatever  profession  you  might  adoi>t. 

“You  seem,  I think,  to  repent  too  much  the  time  you  have 
devoted  to  the  Belles  Lettres.  I confess  I do  not  regret  this 
for  you.  You  must,  I am  sure,  have  felt  the  effect  which 
such  studies  have  in  giving  a general  refinement  to  the  man- 
ners and  to  the  heart,  which,  to  anyone  who  is  not  to  be  strict- 
ly a man  of  science,  is  the  most  valuable  effect  of  literature. 
You  must  remember  that  there  is  a great  difference  between 
professionally,  and  studying  for  relaxation  and  orna- 
ment. In  the  societ}"  in  wbich  you  are  to  mix,  the  writers  in 
Belles  Lettres  will  be  mentioned  fifty  times,  when  more  ab- 
stract science  will  not  be  mentioned  once  ; and  there  is  this 
great  advantage  in  that  sort  of  knowledge,  that  the  display  of 
it,  unless  very  immoderate  indeed,  is  not  counted  pedantry, 
when  the  display  of  other  intellectual  attainments  might  run 
some  risk  of  the  imputation.  There  is  indeed  one  evil  in  the 
reading  of  poetry  and  other  light  productions,  that  it  is  apt 


108 


pujeterita. 


to  be  indulged  in  to  downright  gluttony^  and  to  occupy  time 
which  should  be  given  to  business ; but  I am  sure  I can  rely 
on  you  that  you  will  not  so  misapply  your  time.  There  is, 
however,  one  science,  the  first  and  greatest  of  sciences  to  all 
men,  and  to  merchants  particularly — the  science  of  Political 
Economy.  To  this  I think  your  chief  attention  should  be 
directed.  It  is  in  truth  the  science  of  your  own  profession, 
which  counteracts  the — (word  lost  with  seal) — and  narrow 
habits  which  that  profession  is  sometimes  apt  to  produce  ; 
and  which  is  of  perpetual  appeal  in  every  discussion  on  mer- 
cantile and  financial  affairs.  A merchant  well  instructed  in 
Political  Economy  must  always  be  fit  to  lead  the  views  of  his 
brother  merchants — without  it,  he  is  a mere  trader.  Do  not 
lose  a day,  therefore,  without  providing  yourself  with  a copy 
of  Adam  Smith’s  ‘ Wealth  of  Nations,’  and  read  and  re-read  it 
with  attention — as  I am  sure  you  must  read  it  with  delight. 
In  giving  you  this  advice  I consider  you  as  a merchant,  for  as 
that  is  to  be  your  profession  in  life,  your  test  of  the  impor- 
tance of  any  acquirement  should  be  how  far  it  will  tend  to 
render  you  an  honorable  and  distinguished  merchant; — a 
character  of  no  small  estimation  in  this  commercial  country. 
I tliei’efore  consider  the  physical  sciences  as  greatly  subordi- 
nate in  relation  to  your  prospects  in  life,  and  the  society  in 
which  you  will  be  called  to  mingle.  All  but  chemistry  re- 
(]uire  a greater  preparation  in  mathematics  than  you  prob- 
ably have,  and  chemistry  it  is  quite  impossible  to  understand 
without  some  opportunity  of  seeing  experiments  systemati- 
cally carried  on.  If,  however,  you  have  the  opportunity  to  at- 
tend any  of  the  lecturers  on  that  science  in  London,  it  will  be 
well  worth  your  while,  and  in  that  case  I think  you  should 
purchase  either  Dr.  Thomson’s  or  Mr.  Murray’s  new  system 
of  chemistry,  so  as  to  keep  up  constantly  with  your  lecturer. 
Even  of  physics  in  general  it  is  pleasant  to  have  some  view, 
l)Owever  superficial,  and  therefore,  though  you  cannot  expect 
without  mathematics  to  have  anything  but  a superficial  view, 
you  had  better  try  to  attain  it.  With  this  view  3’ou  may  read 
Gregory’s  ‘ Economy  of  Nature,’  which,  though  not  a good 
book,  and  not  always  accurate,  is,  I believe,  the  best  popular 


PAPA  AND  MA3IMA. 


107 


book  we  have,  and  sufficiently  accurate  for  your  purposes. 
Remember,  however,  that  though  you  may  be  permitted  to 
be  a superficial  natural  philosopher,  no  such  indulgence  is  to 
be  given  you  in  Political  Economy. 

“ The  only  other  circumstance  remaining  for  me  to  request 
of  you  is  that  you  will  not  suffer  yourself  to  lose  any  of  the 
languages  you  have  acquired.  Of  the  modern  languages 
there  is  less  fear,  as  your  mercantile  communications  will  hi 
some  measure  keep  them  alive  ; but  merchants  do  not  cor- 
respond in  Latin,  and  you  may  perhaps  lose  it  unconsciously. 
Independently,  however,  of  the  admirable  writers  of  whom 
you  would  thus  deprive  yourself,  and  considering  the  lan- 
guage merely  as  the  accomplishment  of  a gentleman,  it  is  of 
too  great  value  to  be  carelessly  resigned. 

“Farewell,  my  dear  sir.  Accept  the  regard  of  all  this 
family,  and  believe  me,  with  every  wish  to  be  of  service  to 
you, 

“Your  sincere  friend, 

“T.  Brown.” 

It  may  easily  be  conceived  that  a youth  to  whom  such  a 
letter  as  this  was  addressed  by  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  purely 
intellectual  circles  of  Edinburgh,  would  be  regarded  with 
more  respect  by  his  Croydon  cousin  than  is  usually  rendered 
by  grown  j^oung  women  to  their  schoolboy  friends. 

Their  frank,  cousinly  relation  went  on,  however,  without  a 
thought  on  either  side  of  any  closer  ties,  until  my  father,  at 
two  or  three  and  twenty,  after  various  apprenticeships  in 
London,  was  going  finally  to  London  to  begin  his  career  iii 
his  own  business.  By  that  time  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  Margaret,  though  not  the  least  an  ideal  heroine  to  him, 
was  quite  the  best  sort  of  person  he  could  have  fora  wife,  the 
rather  as  they  were  already  so  well  used  to  each  other ; and 
in  a quiet,  but  enough  resolute  way,  asked  her  if  she  were  of 
the  same  mind,  and  would  wait  until  he  had  an  independence 
to  offer  her.  His  early  tutress  consented  with  frankly  con- 
fessed joy,  not  indeed  in  the  Agnes  Wickfield  way,  “ I have 
loved  you  all  my  life,”  but  feeling  and  admitting  that  it  was 


108 


PBJETEEITA, 


great  delight  to  he  allowed  to  love  him  now.  The  relations 
between  Grace  Nugent  and  Lord  Colambre  in  Miss  Edge- 
worth’s “Absentee”  extremely  resemble  those  between  my 
father  and  mother,  except  that  Lord  Colambre  is  a more  eager 
lover.  My  father  chose  his  wife  much  with  the  same  kind  of 
serenity  and  decision  with  which  afterward  he  chose  his 
clerks. 

A time  of  active  and  hopeful  contentment  for  both  the 
young  people  followed,  my  mother  being  perhaps  the  more 
deeply  in  love,  while  John  depended  more  absolutely  on  her 
sympathy  and  wise  friendship  than  is  at  all  usual  with  young 
men  of  the  present  day  in  their  relations  with  admired  young 
ladies.  But  neither  of  them  ever  permitted  their  feelings  to 
degenerate  into  fretful  or  impatient  passion.  My  mother 
shov/ed  her  affection  chiefly  in  steady  endeavor  to  cultivate 
her  powers  of  mind,  and  form  her  manners,  so  as  to  fit  herself 
to  be  the  undespised  companion  of  a man  whom  she  considered 
much  her  superior:  my  father  in  unremitting  attention  to  the 
business  on  the  success  of  which  his  marriage  depended  : and 
in  a methodical  regularity  of  conduct  and  correspondence 
which  never  left  liis  mistress  a moment  of  avoidable  anxiety, 
or  gave  her  motive  for  any  serious  displeasure. 

On  these  terms  the  engagement  lasted  nine  years  ; at  the 
end  of  which  time,  my  grandfather’s  debts  having  been  all 
paid,  and  my  father  established  in  a business  gradually  in- 
creasing, and  liable  to  no  grave  contingency,  the  now  not 
very  young  people  were  married  in  Perth  one  evening  after 
supper,  the  servants  of  the  house  having  no  suspicion  of  the 
event  until  John  and  Margaret  drove  away  together  next 
morning  to  Edinburgh. 

In  looking  back  to  my  past  thoughts  and  Vv^ays,  nothing 
astonishes  me  more  than  my  w^ant  of  curiosity  about  ail  these 
matters  ; and  that,  often  and  often  as  m3"  mother  used  to  tell 
with  complacency  the  story  of  this  carefully  secret  marriage, 
I never  asked,  “But,  mother,  why  so  secret,  when  it  was  just 
what  all  the  friends  of  both  of  you  so  long  expected,  and  what 
all  your  best  friends  so  heartily  wished?  ” 

But,  until  lately,  I never  thought  of  writing  any  more  about 


l^APA  AND  MAMMA. 


109 


mjself  than  was  set  down  in  diaries,  nor  of  my  family  at  all ; 
and  thus  too  carelessly,  and,  as  I now  think,  profanely, 
neglected  the  traditions  of  my  people.  “What  does  it  all 
matter,  now  ? ” I said  ; “ we  are  what  we  are,  and  shall  be 
what  we  make  ourselves.” 

Also,  until  very  lately,  I had  accustomed  myself  to  consider 
all  that  my  parents  had  done,  so  far  as  their  own  happiness 
was  concerned,  entirely  wise  and  exemplary.  Yet  the  reader 
must  not  suppose  that  what  I have  said  in  my  deliberate  writ- 
ings on  the  propriety  of  long  engagements  had  any  reference 
to  this  singular  one  in  my  own  family.  Of  the  heroism  and 
patience  with  which  the  sacrifice  was  made,  on  both  sides,  I 
cannot  judge: — but  that  it  was  greater  than  I should  myself 
have  been  capable  of,  I know,  and  I believe  that  it  ^vas  unwise. 
For  during  these  years  of  waiting,  my  father  fell  gradually 
into  a state  of  ill-health  from  which  he  never  entirely  recov» 
ered  ; and  in  close  of  life,  they  both  had  to  leave  their  child, 
just  when  he  was  beginning  to  satisfy  the  ho^^es  they  had 
formed  for  him. 

I have  allowed  this  tale  of  the  little  I knew  of  their  early 
trials  and  virtues  to  be  thus  chance  told,  because  I think  my 
history  will,  in  the  end,  bo  completest  if  I write  as  its  con- 
nected subjects  occur  to  me,  and  not  with  formal  chronology 
of  plan.  My  reason  for  telling  it  in  this  place  was  chiefly  to 
explain  how  my  mother  obtained  her  perfect  skill  in  English 
reading,  through  the  hard  effort  which,  through  the  years  of 
waiting,  she  made  to  efface  the  faults,  and  supply  the  defects, 
of  her  early  education  ; effort  which  was  aided  and  directed 
unerringly  by  her  natural — for  its  intensity  I might  justly  call 
it  supernatural — purity  of  heart  and  conduct,  leading  hei' 
always  to  take  most  delight  in  the  right  and  clear  language 
which  only  can  relate  lovely  things.  Her  unquestioning 
evangelical  faith  in  the  literal  truth  of  the  Bible  placed  me,  as 
soon  as  I could  conceive  or  think,  in  the  presence  of  an  unseen 
world  ; and  set  my  active  analytic  power  early  to  work  on  the 
questions  of  conscience,  free  will,  and  responsibility,  which 
are  easily  determined  in  days  of  innocence ; but  are  approached 
too  often  with  prejudice,  and  always  with  disadvantage,  after 


110 


PliuSTERlTA. 


men  become  stupefied  by  the  opinions,  or  tainted  by  the  sins, 
of  the  outer  world ; while  the  gloom,  and  even  terror,  with 
which  the  restrictions  of  the  Sunday,  and  the  doctrines  of  the 
“Pilgrim’s  Progress,”  the  “Holy  War,”  and  Quarles’  “Em- 
blems,” oppressed  the  seventh  part  of  my  time,  was  useful  to 
me  as  the  only  form  of  vexation  which  I was  called  on  to 
endure  ; and  redeemed  by  the  otherwise  uninterrupted  cheer- 
fulness and  tranquillity  of  a household  wherein  the  common 
ways  were  all  of  ];)leasantness,  and  its  single  and  strait  path, 
of  perfect  peace. 

My  father’s  failure  of  health,  following  necessarily  on  the  long 
years  of  responsibility  and  exertion,  needed  only  this  repose  to 
effect  its  cure.  Shy  to  an  extreme  degree  in  general  com- 
pany, all  the  more  because  he  had  natural  powers  which  he 
was  unable  to  his  own  satisfaction  to  express, — his  business 
faculty  was  entirely  superb  and  easy  : he  gave  his  full  energy 
to  counting-house  work  in  the  morning,  and  his  afternoons 
to  domestic  rest.  With  instant  perception  and  decision  in  all 
business  questions  ; with  principles  of  dealing  which  admitted 
of  no  infraction,  and  involved  neither  anxiety  nor  concealment, 
the  counting-house  work  was  more  of  an  interest,  or  even  an 
amusement,  to  him,  than  a care.  His  capital  was  either  in 
the  Bank,  or  in  St.  Catherine’s  Docks,  in  the  form  of  insured 
butts  of  the  finest  sherry  in  the  world  ; his  partner,  Mr. 
Domecq,  a Spaniard  as  proud  as  himself,  as  honorable,  and 
having  perfect  trust  in  him, — not  only  in  his  probity,  but  his 
judgment, — accurately  complying  with  all  his  directions  in 
the  preparation  of  wine  for  the  English  market,  and  no  less 
anxious  than  he  to  make  every  variety  of  it,  in  its  several  rank, 
incomparably  good.  The  letters  to  Spain  therefore  needed 
only  brief  statement  that  the  public  of  that  year  wanted  their 
wine  young  or  old,  pale  or  brown,  and  the  like  ; and  the 
letters  to  customers  were  as  brief  in  their  assurances  that  if 
they  found  fault  with  their  wine,  they  did  not  understand  it, 
and  if  they  wanted  an  extension  of  credit,  they  could  not 
have  it.  These  Spartan  brevities  of  epistle  were,  however, 
always  supported  by  the  utmost  care  in  executing  his  corre- 
spondents’ orders  ; and  by  the  unusual  attention  shown  them 


PAPA . AND  MAMMA. 


Ill 


in  travelling'  for  those  orders  himself,  instead  of  sending  an 
agent  or  a clerk.  His  domiciliary  visits  of  this  kind  were  al- 
ways conducted  by  him  with  great  savoir-faire  and  pleasant 
courtesy,  no  less  than  the  most  attentive  patience  : and  they 
were  productive  of  the  more  confidence  between  him  and  the 
country  merchant,  that  he  was  perfectly  just  and  candid  in 
appraisement  of  the  wine  of  rival  houses,  while  his  fine  palate 
enabled  him  always  to  sustain  triumphantly  any  and  every 
ordeal  of  blindfold  question  which  the  suspicions  customer 
might  put  him  to.  Also,  when  correspondents  of  importance 
came  up  to  town,  my  father  would  put  himself  so  far  out  of 
his  way  as  to  ask  them  to  dine  at  Herne  Hill,  and  try  the  com 
tents  of  his  own  cellar.  These  London  visits  fell  into  groups, 
on  any  occasion  in  the  metropolis  of  interest  more  than  usual 
to  the  provincial  mind.  Our  business  dinners  were  then 
arranged  so  as  to  collect  two  or  three  country  visitors  togetli-= 
er,  and  the  table  made  symmetrical  by  selections  from  the 
house’s  customers  in  London,  whose  conversation  might  be 
most  instructive  to  its  rural  friends. 

Very  early  in  my  boy’s  life  I began  much  to  dislike  these 
commercial  feasts,  and  to  form,  by  carefully  attending  to 
their  dialogue,  wdien  it  chanced  to  turn  on  any  other  subject 
than  wine,  an  extremely  low  estimate  of  the  commercial  mind 
as  such  ;~estimate  wdiich  I have  never  had  the  slightest  reason 
to  alter. 

Of  our  neighbors  on  Herne  Hill  vze  saw  nothing,  v/ith  one 
exception  only,  afterward  to  be  noticed.  They  w^ere  for  the 
most  part  W'elbto-do  London  tradesmen  of  the  better  class, 
wdio  had  little  sympathy  with  my  mother’s  old-fashioned  v/ays, 
and  none  wdth  my  father’s  romantic  sentiment. 

There  was  probably  the  farther  reason  for  our  declining  the 
intimacy  of  our  immediate  neighbors,  that  most  of  them  were 
far  more  wealthy  than  w'e,  and  inclined  to  demonstrate  their 
wealth  by  the  magnificence  of  their  establishments.  My 
parents  lived  with  strict  economy,  kept  only  female  servants,* 
used  only  tallow  candles  in  plated  candlesticks,  were  content 

* Tliomas  left  us,  I think  partly  in  shame  for  my  permanently  in- 
jured lip  ; and  we  never  had  another  indoor  man-servant. 


112 


PR^TERITA, 


Avitli  the  leasehold  territory  of  their  front  and  back  gardens, — 
scarce  an  acre  altogether, — and  kept  neither  horse  nor  car- 
riage. Oiir  shop-keeping  neighbors,  on  the  contrary,  had 
usually  great  cortege  of  footmen  and  glitter  of  plate,  exten- 
sive pleasure  grounds,  costly  hot-houses,  and  carriages  driven 
by  coachmen  in  wigs.  It  may  be  perhaps  doubted  by  some 
of  my  readers  whether  the  coldness  of  acquaintanceship  was 
altogether  on  our  side  ; but  assuredly  my  father  was  too 
proud  to  join  entertainments  for  which  he  could  give  no  like 
return,  and  my  mother  did  not  care  to  leave  her  card  on  foot  at 
the  doors  of  ladies  who  dashed  up  to  hers  in  their  barouche. 

Protected  by  these  monastic  severities  and  aristocratic  dig- 
nities, from  the  snares  and  disturbances  of  the  outer  world, 
the  routine  of  my  childish  days  became  fixed,  as  of  the  sun- 
rise and  sunset  to  a nestling.  It  may  seem  singular  to  many 
of  my  readei’s  that  I remember  with  most  pleasure  the  time 
when  it  was  most  regular  and  most  solitary.  The  entra.nce 
of  my  cousin  Mary  into  our  household  was  coincident  with 
the  introduction  of  masters  above  described,  and  with  other 
changes  in  the  aims  and  employments  of  the  day,  which, 
while  they  often  increased  its  interest,  disturbed  its  tranquil- 
lity. The  ideas  of  success  at  school  or  college,  put  before  me 
by  my  masters,  were  ignoble  and  comfortless,  in  compai'ison 
with  my  mother’s  regretful  blame,  or  simple  praise  : and 
Mary,  though  of  a mildly  cheei-ful  and  entirely  amiable  dis- 
position, necessarily  touched  the  household  heart  with  the 
sadness  of  her  orphanage,  and  something  interrupted  its  har- 
mony by  the  difference,  which  my  mother  could  not  help 
showing,  between  the  feelings  with  which  she  regarded  her 
niece  and  her  child. 

And  although  I have  dwelt  with  thankfulness  on  the  many 
joys  and  advantages  of  these  secluded  years,  the  vigilant  reader 
will  not,  I hope,  have  interpreted  the  accounts  rendered  of 
them  into  general  praise  of  a like  home  education  in  the  en- 
virons of  London.  But  one  farther  good  there  was  in  it, 
hitherto  unspoken ; that  great  part  of  my  acute  perception 
and  deep  feeling  of  the  beauty  of  architecture  and  scenery 
abroad,  was  owing  to  the  well-formed  habit  of  narrowing 


PAPA  AND  MAMMA. 


113 


myself  to  happiness  within  the  four  brick  walls  of  our  fifty  by 
one  hundred  yards  of  garden  ; and  accepting  with  resignation 
the  sesthetic  external  surroundings  of  a London  suburb,  and, 
yet  more,  of  a London  chapel.  l"or  Dr.  Andrews’  was  the 
Londonian  chapel  in  its  perfect  type,  definable  as  accurately 
as  a Eoman  basilica, — an  oblong,  flat-ceiled  barn,  lighted  by 
windows  with  semicircular  heads,  brick  - arched,  filled  by 
small-paned  glass  held  by  iron  bars,  like  fine  threaded  halves 
of  cobwebs ; galleries  propped  on  iron  pipes,  up  both  sides ; 
pews,  well  shut  in,  each  of  them,  by  partitions  of  j^lain  deal, 
and  neatly  brass-latched  deal  doors,  tilling  the  barn  floor,  all 
but  its  two  lateral  straw-matted  passages  ; pulpit,  sublimely 
isolated,  central  from  sides  and  clear  of  altar  rails  at  end  ; a 
stout,  four-legged  box  of  well-grained  wainscot,  high  as  the 
level  of  front  galleries,  and  decorated  with  a cushion  of 
crimson  velvet,  padded  six  inches  thick,  with  gold  tassels  at 
the  corners  ; which  was  a great  resource  to  me  when  I was 
tired  of  the  sermon,  because  I liked  watching  the  rich  color  of 
the  folds  and  creases  that  came  in  it  when  the  clergyman 
thumped  it. 

Imagine  the  change  between  one  Sunday  and  the  next, — 
from  the  morning  service  in  this  building,  attended  by  the 
families  of  the  small  shopkeepers  of  the  Walworth  Road,  in 
their  Sunday  trimmings  ; our  plumber’s  wife,  fat,  good, 
sensible  Mrs.  Goad,  sat  in  the  next  pew  in  front  of  us,  sternly 
sensitive  to  the  interruption  of  her  devotion  by  our  late  arri- 
vals) ; fancy  the  change  from  this,  to  high  mass  in  Rouen 
Cathedral,  its  nave  filled  by  the  white-capped  peasantry  of 
half  Normandy  ! 

Nor  was  the  contrast  less  enchanting  or  marvellous  between 
the  street  architecture  familiar  to  my  eyes,  and  that  of  Flan- 
ders and  Italy,  as  an  exposition  of  mercantile  taste  and  power. 
My  father’s  counting-house  v/as  in  the  centre  of  Billiter  Street, 
some  jnars  since  effaced  from  sight  and  memory  of  men,  but 
a type,  then,  of  English  city  state  in  perfection.  We  now 
build  house  fronts  as  advertisements,  spending  a hundred 
thousand  pounds  in  the  lying  mask  of  our  bankruptcies.  But 
in  my  father’s  time  both  trade  and  building  were  still  honest. 

8 


114: 


PM^TEBITA. 


His  counting-bouse  was  a room  about  fifteen  feet  by  twenty, 
including  desks  for  two  clerks,  and  a small  cupboard  for 
sherry  samples,  on  the  first  floor,  with  a larger  room  opposite 
for  private  polite  receptions  of  elegant  visitors,  or  the  serving 
of  a chop  for  himself  if  he  had  to  stay  late  in  town.  The 
ground  floor  was  occupied  by  friendly  Messrs.  Wardell  and 
Co.,  a bottling  retail  firm,  I believe.  The  only  advertisement 
of  the  place  of  business  was  the  brass  plate  under  the  bell- 
handle,  inscribed  “Kuskin,  Telford,  and  Domecq,”  brightly 
scrubbed  by  the  single  female  servant  in  charge  of  the  estab- 
lishment, old  Maisie,' — abbreviated  or  tenderly  diminished  into 
the  “ sie,”  from  I know  not  what  Christian  name — Marion,  I 
believe,  as  Mary  into  Manse.  The  whole  house,  three-storied, 
with  garrets,  was  under  her  authority,  with,  doubtless,  assist- 
ant morning  charwoman, — cooking,  v/aiting,  and  answering 
the  door  to  distinguished  visitors,  all  done  by  Maisie,  the 
visitors  being  expected  of  course  to  announce  themselves  by 
the  knocker  with  a flourish  in  proportion  to  their  eminence 
in  society.  The  business  men  rang  the  counting-house  bell 
aforesaid,  (round  which  the  many  coats  of  annual  paint  were 
cut  into  a beautiful  slant  section  by  daily  scrubbing,  like  the 
coats  of  an  agate  ;)  and  were  admitted  by  lifting  of  latch, 
manipulated  by  the  head  clerk’s  hand  in  the  counting-house, 
without  stirring  from  his  seat. 

This  unpretending  establishment,  as  I said,  formed  part  of 
the  western  side  of  Billiter  Street,  a narrow  trench — it  may 
have  been  thirty  feet  wide — admitting,  with  careful  and  pre- 
cise driving,  the  passing  each  other  of  two  brew'ers’  dra3's.  I 
am  not  sure  that  this  was  possible  at  the  ends  of  the  street, 
but  only  at  a slight  enlargement  opposite  the  brewery  in  the 
]uiddle.  Effectively  a mere  trench  between  three-storied 
houses  of  prodigious  brickwork,  thoroughly  well  laid,  and 
presenting  no  farther  entertainment  wdiatever  to  the  sesthetic 
beholder  than  the  alternation  of  the  ends  and  sides  of  their 
beautifully  level  close  courses  of  bricks,  and  the  practised  and 
skilful  radiation  of  those  which  formed  the  window  lintels. 

Typical,  I repeat,  of  the  group  of  London  edifices  east  of 
the  Mansion  House,  and  extending  to  the  Tower ; the  under’ 


PAPA  AND  MAMMA. 


115 


hill  picturesquenesses  of  which,  however,  were  in  early  days 
an  entirely  forbidden  district  to  me,  lest  I should  tumble  into 
the  docks  ; but  Fenchurch  and  Leadenhall  streets,  familiar  to 
me  as  the  perfection  of  British  mercantile  state  and  grandeur, 
— the  reader  may  by  effort,  though  still  dimly,  conceive  the 
effect  on  my  imagination  of  the  fantastic  gables  of  Ghent, 
and  orange-scented  cortiles  of  Genoa. 

I can  scarcely  account  to  myself,  on  any  of  the  ordinary 
principles  of  resignation,  for  the  undimmed  tranquillity  of 
pleasure  with  which,  after  these  infinite  excitements  in  for- 
eign lands,  my  father  would  return  to  his  desk  opposite  the 
brick  wall  of  the  brewery,  and  I to  my  niche  behiiid  the 
drawing-room  chimney-piece.  But  to  both  of  us,  the  steady 
occupations,  the  beloved  samenesses,  and  the  sacred  customs 
of  home  were  more  precious  than  all  the  fervors  of  wonder 
in  things  new  to  us,  or  delight  in  scenes  of  incomparable 
beauty.  Very  early,  indeed,  I had  found  that  novelty  was 
soon  exhausted,  and  beauty,  though  inexhaustible,  beyond  a 
certain  point  or  time  of  enthusiasm,  no  more  to  be  enjoyed  ; 
but  it  is  not  so  often  observed  by  philosophers  that  home, 
healthily  organized,  is  always  enjoyable  ; nay,  the  sick  thrill 
of  pleasure  through  all  the  brain  and  heart  with  which,  after 
even  so  much  as  a month  or  two  of  absence,  I used  to  catch 
the  first  sight  of  the  ridge  of  Herne  Hill,  and  watch  for  every 
turn  of  the  well-known  road  and  every  branch  of  the  familiar 
trees,  was — though  not  so  deep  or  overwhelming — more  in- 
timately and  vitally  powerful  than  the  brightest  passions  of 
joy  in  strange  lands,  or  even  in  the  unaccustomed  scenery  of 
my  own.  To  my  mother,  her  ordinary  household  cares,  her 
reading  with  Mary  and  me,  her  chance  of  a chat  with  Mrs. 
Gray,  and  the  unperturbed  preparation  for  my  father’s  return, 
and  for  the  quiet  evening,  were  more  than  all  the  splendors 
or  wonders  of  the  globe  between  poles  and  equator. 

Thus  we  returned — full  of  new  thoughts,  and  faithful  to 
the  old,  to  this  exulting  rest  of  home  in  the  close  of  1833.  An 
unforeseen  shadow  was  in  the  heaven  of  its  charmed  horizon. 

Every  day  at  Cornhill,  Charles  became  more  delightful  and 
satisfactory  to  everybody  who  knew  him.  How  a boy  living 


116 


ph^tebita. 


all  day  in  London  could  keep  so  bright  a complexion,  and  so 
crisply  Achillean  curls  of  hair — and  all  the  gay  spirit  of  his 
Croydon  mother — was  not  easily  conceivable  ; but  he  became 
a perfect  combination  of  the  sparkle  of  Jin  Vin  with  the 
steadiness  of  Tunstall,  and  was  untroubled  by  the  charms  of 
any  unattainable  Margaret,  for  his  master  had  no  daughter  ; 
but,  as  worse  chance  would  have  it,  a son  : so  that,  looking 
forward  to  possibilities  as  a rising  apprentice  ought,  Charles 
saw  that  there  were  none  in  the  house  for  him  beyond  the 
place  of  cashier,  or  perhaps  only  head-clerk.  His  elder 
brother,  who  had  taught  him  to  swim  by  throwing  him  into 
Croydon  Canal,  was  getting  on  fast  as  a general  trader  in 
Australia,  and  naturally  longed  to  have  his  best-loved  brother 
there  for  a partner.  Bref,  it  was  resolved  that  Charles  should 
go  to  Australia.  The  Christmas  time  of  1833  passed  heavil}^ 
for  1 was  very  sorry  ; Maiy,  a good  deal  more  so  : and  my 
father  and  mother,  though  in  their  hearts  caring  for  nobody 
in  the  world  but  me,  were  grave  at  the  thought  of  Charles’s 
going  so  far  away  ; but  honestly  and  justifiably,  thought  it 
for  the  lad’s  good.  I think  the  whole  affair  was  decided,  and 
Charles’s  outfit  furnished,  and  ship’s  berth  settled,  and  ship’s 
captain  interested  in  his  favor,  in  something  less  than  a fort- 
night, and  down  he  w^ent  to  Portsmouth  to  join  his  ship  joy- 
fully, with  the  world  to  win.  By  due  post  came  the  new^s 
that  he  was  at  anchor  off  Cowes,  but  that  the  ship  could  not 
sail  because  of  the  west  wind.  And  post  succeeded  post,  and 
still  the  west  wind  blew.  "We  liked  the  w^est  wind  for  its  own 
sake,  but  it  was  a prolonging  of  farewell  which  teazed  us, 
though  Charles  wrote  that  he  was  enjoying  himself  immensely, 
and  the  captain,  that  he  had  made  friends  with  every  sailor 
on  board,  besides  the  passengers. 

And  still  the  west  wind  blew.  I do  not  remember  how 
long — some  ten  days  or  fortnight,  I believe.  At  last,  one 
day  my  mother  and  Mary  went  with  my  father  into  town  on 
some  shopping  or  sight-seeing  business  of  a cheerful  charac- 
ter ; and  I was  left  at  home,  busy  also  about  something  that 
cheered  me  greatly,  I know  not  what ; but  when  I heard  the 
others  come  in,  and  upstairs  into  the  drawing-room,  I ran 


PAP4^  AND  MAMMA. 


117 


eagerly  down  and  into  the  room,  beginning  to  tell  them  about 
this  felicity  that  had  befallen  me,  whatever  it  was.  They  all 
stood  like  statues,  my  father  and  aiother  very  grave.  Mary 
was  looking  out  of  the  window — the  farthest  of  the  front 
three  from  the  door.  As  I went  on,  boasting  of  myself,  she 
turned  round  suddenly,  her  face  all  streaming  with  tears, 
and  caught  hold  of  mo,  and  put  her  face  close  to  mine,  that  I 
might  hear  the  sobbing  wdiisper,  “Charles  is  gone.” 

The  west  wind  had  still  blown,  clearly  and  strong,  and  the 
day  before  there  had  been  a fresh  breeze  of  it  round  the  isle, 
at  Spithead,  exactly  the  kind  of  breeze  that  drifts  the  clouds, 
and  ridges  the  waves,  in  Turner’s  “Gosport.” 

The  ship  v/as  sending  her  boat  on  shore  for  some  water,  or 
the  like — her  little  cutter,  or  somehow  sailing,  boat.  There 
was  a heavy  sea  running,  and  the  sailors,  and,  I believe,  also 
a passenger  or  two,  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  on  board. 
“May  I go,  too?”  said  Charles  to  the  captain,  as  he  stood 
seeing  them  down  the  side.  “Are  you  not  afraid  ?”  said  the 
captain.  “I  never  was  afraid  of  anything  in  my  life,”  said 
Charles,  and  went  down  the  side  and  leaped  in. 

The  boat  had  not  got  fifty  j^ards  from  the  ship  before  she 
went  over,  but  there  were  other  boats  sailing  all  about  them, 
like  gnats  in  midsummer.  Two  or  three  scudded  to  the  spot 
in  a minute,  and  every  soul  was  saved,  except  Charles,  who 
went  down  like  a stone. 

22d  January,  1834. 

All  this  we  knew  by  little  and  little.  For  the  first  day 
or  two  we  would  not  believe  it,  but  thought  he  must  have 
been  taken  up  by  some  other  boat  and  carried  to  sea.  At 
last  came  word  that  his  body  had  been  throwm  ashore  at 
Cowes : and  his  father  went  down  to  see  him  buried.  That 
done,  and  all  the  story  heard,  for  still  the  ship  stayed,  he 
came  to  Herne  Hill,  to  tell  Charles’s  “ auntie  ” all  about  it. 
(The  old  man  never  called  my  mother  anything  else  than 
auntie.)  It  was  in  the  morning,  in  the  front  parlor — my 
mother  knitting  in  her  usual  place  at  the  fireside,  I at  my 


118 


PR^TERITA. 


drawing,  or  the  like,  in  my  own  place  also.  My  uncle  told 
all  the  story,  in  the  quiet,  steady  sort  of  way  that  the  common 
English  do,  till  just  at  the  end  he  broke  down  into  sobbing, 
saying  (I  can  hear  the  words  now),  “ They  caught  the  cap  of? 
of  his  head,  and  yet  they  couldn’t  save  him.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

VESTER,  CAMENiE. 

The  death  of  Charles  closed  the  doors  of  my  heart  again 
for  that  time  ; and  the  self-engrossed  quiet  of  the  Herne  Hill 
life  continued  for  another  year,  leaving  little  to  be  remem- 
bered, and  less  to  be  told.  My  parents  made  one  effort,  how- 
ever, to  obtain  some  healthy  companionship  for  me,  to  which 
I probably  owe  more  than  I knew  at  the  moment. 

Some  six  or  seven  gates  down  the  hill  toward  the  field, 
(which  I have  to  return  most  true  thanks  to  its  present  owner, 
Mr.  Sopper,  for  having  again  opened  to  the  public  sight  in 
consequence  of  the  passage  above  describing  the  greatness  of 
its  loss  both  to  the  neighbor  and  the  stranger),  some  six  or 
seven  gates  down  that  way,  a pretty  lawn,  shaded  by  a low 
spreading  cedar,  opened  before  an  extremely  neat  and  care- 
fully kept  house,  wdiere  lived  two  people,  modest  in  their 
ways  as  my  father  and  mother  themselves, — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fall ; happier,  however,  in  having  son  and  daughter  instead 
of  an  only  child.  Their  son,  Richard,  was  a year  younger 
than  I,  but  already  at  school  at  Shrewsbury,  and  somewhat 
in  advance  of  me  therefore  in  regular  discipline ; extremely 
gentle  and  good-natured, — his  sister,  still  younger,  a clever 
little  girl,  her  mother’s  constant  companion : and  both  of 
them  unpretending,  but  rigid,  examples  of  all  Herne  Hill 
proprieties,  true  religions,  and  useful  learnings.  I shudder 
still  at  the  recollectk>n  of  Mrs.  Fall’s  raised  eyebrows  one  day 
at  my  pronunciation  of  “naivete”  as  “naivette.” 

I think  it  must  have  been  as  early  as  1832  that  my  father, 
noticing  with  great  respect  the  conduct  of  all  matters  in  this 


VESTEH,  CAMEN^. 


119 


family,  wrote  to  Mr.  Fall  in  courteous  request  that  “the  two 
boys”  might  be  permitted,  v/heii  Richard  was  at  home,  to 
pursue  their  holiday  tasks,  or  recreations,  so  far  as  it  pleased 
them,  together.  The  proposal  was  kindly  taken  : the  two 
boys  took  stock  of  each  other, — agreed  to  the  arrangement, — • 
and,  as  I had  been  promoted  by  that  time  to  the  possession 
of  a study,  all  to  myself,  while  Richard  had  only  his  own 
room,  (and  that  liable  to  sisterly  advice  or  intrusion,)  the 
course  which  things  fell  into  was  that  usuall}^,  when  Richard 
was  at  home,  he  came  up  past  the  seven  gates  about  ten  in 
the  morning ; did  what  lessons  he  had  to  do  at  the  same 
table  v/ith  me,  occasionally  helping  me  a little  with  mdiie  ; 
and  then  we  went  together  for  afternoon  walk  with  Dash, 
Gipsy,  or  whatever  dog  chanced  to  be  dominant. 

Ido  not  venture  to  affirm  that  the  snow  of  those  Christmas 
holidays  was  whiter  than  it  is  now,  though  I might  give  some 
reasons  for  supposing  that  it  remained  longer  white.  But  I 
affirm  decisively  that  it  used  to  fall  deeper  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London  than  has  been  seen  for  the  last  twenty  or 
twenty-five  years.  It  was  quite  usual  to  find  in  the  hollo^vs 
of  the  Norv/ood  Hills  the  field  fences  buried  under  crested 
waves  of  snow,  while,  from  the  higher  ridges,  half  the  counties 
of  Kent  and  Surrey  shone  to  the  horizon  like  a cloudless  and 
terrorless  Ai’ctic  sea. 

Richard  Fall  was  entirely  good-humored,  sensible,  and 
practical ; but  had  no  particular  tastes  ; a distaste,  if  anytliing, 
for  my  styles  both  of  art  and  poetry.  Ke  stiffly  declined  ar]>i- 
tration  on  the  merits  of  my  compositions;  and  tliough  with 
pleasant  cordiality  in  daily  companionship,  took  rather  the 
position  of  putting  up  wdth  me,  than  of  pride  in  his  privilege 
of  acquaintance  with  a rising  author.  He  was  never  unkind 
or  sarcastic  ; but  laughed  me  inexorably  out  of  writing  bad 
English  for  rhyme’s  sake,  or  demonstrable  nonsense  either  in 
prose  or  rhyme.  We  got  gradually  accustomed  to  ]>e  to- 
gether, and  far  on  into  life  were  glad  when  any  chance 
brought  us  together  again. 

The  year  1834  passed  innocuously  enough,  but  with  little 
profit,  in  the  quadripartite  industries  before  described,  fob 


120 


PHJETEBITA. 


lowed  for  my  own  pleasure  ;~with  mingiings  of  sapless  effort 
in  the  classics,  in  which  I neither  felt,  nor  foresaw,  the  least 
good. 

Innocuously  enough,  I say,— meaning,  with  as  little  mischief 
as  a weh-intentioned  boy,  virtually  masterless,  could  suffer 
from  having  all  his  own  way,  and  daily  confirming  himself  in 
the  serious  impression  that  his  own  way  was  always  the  best. 

I cannot  analyze,  at  least  without  taking  more  trouble  than 
I suppose  any  reader  would  care  to  take  with  me,  the  mixed 
good  and  evil  in  the  third-rate  literature  which  I preferred  to 
the  Latin  classics.  My  volume  of  the  “Forget-me-not,”  which 
gave  me  that  precious  engraving  of  Verona,  (curiously  also 
another  by  Prout  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,)  was  somewhat 
above  the  general  caste  of  annuals  in  its  quality  of  letterpress  ; 
and  contained  three  stories,  “ The  Ked-nosed  Lieutenant,”  by 
the  Eev.  George  Croly  ; “ Hans  in  Kelder,”  by  the  author  of 
“Chronicles  of  London  Bridge  ;”  and  “ The  Comet,”  by  Henry 
Neele,  Esq.,  which  were  in  their  several  ways  extremely  im- 
pressive to  me.  The  partly  childish,  partly  dull,  or  even,  as 
aforesaid,  idiotic  way  I had  of  staring  at  the  same  things  all 
day  long,  carried  itself  out  in  reading,  so  that  I could  read 
the  same  things  all  the  year  round.  As  there  was  neither 
advantage  nor  credit  to  be  got  by  remembering  fictitious  cir- 
cumstances, I was,  if  anything,  rather  proud  of  my  skill  in 
forgetting,  so  as  the  sooner  to  recover  the  zest  of  the  tales  ; 
and  I suppose  these  favorites,  and  a good  many  less  impor- 
tant ones  of  the  sort,  were  read  some  twenty  times  a year, 
during  the  earlier  epoch  of  teens. 

I wonder  a little  at  my  having  been  allowed  so  long  to  sit 
in  that  drawing-room  corner  with  only  my  Kogers’  “Italy,”  my 
“Forget-me-not,”  the  “Continental  Annual,”  and  “Friend- 
ship’s offering,”  for  my  working  library  ; and  I wonder  a little 
more  that  my  father,  in  his  passionate  hoj)e  that  I might  one 
day  write  like  Byron,  never  noticed  that  Byron’s  early  power 
was  founded  on  a course  of  general  reading  of  the  masters  in 
every  walk  of  literature,  such  as  is,  I think,  utterly  unparalleled 
in  any  other  young  life,  whether  of  student  or  author.  But  I 
was  entirely  incapable  of  such  brain-work,  and  the  real  gift  I 


VESTER,  GAMENJE. 


121 


had  in  drawing  involved  the  use  in  its  practice  of  the  best 
energy  of  the  day.  “ Hans  in  Kelder,”  and  “The  Comet,”  were 
my  manner  of  rest. 

I do  not  know  when  my  father  first  began  to  read  Byron  to 
me,  with  any  expectation  of  my  liking  him  ; all  primary  train- 
ing, after  the  “Iliad,”  having  been  in  Scott  ; but  it  must  have 
been  about  tlie  beginning  of  the  teen  period,  else  I should 
recollect  the  first  effect  of  it.  “Manfred”  evidently,  Iliad  got 
at,  like  “Macbeth,”  for  the  sake  of  the  witches.  Various  ques- 
tionable  changes  were  made,  however,  at  that  1831  turning  of 
twelve,  in  the  Hermitage  discipline  of  Herne  Hill.  I was  al- 
lowed to  taste  wine  ; taken  to  the  theatre  ; and,  on  festive 
days,  even  dined  with  my  father  and  mother  at  four : and  it 
was  then  generally  at  dessert  that  my  father  would  read  any 
otherwise  suspected  delight : the  “Noctes  Ambrosianae  ” regu- 
larly when  they  came  out — without  the  least  missing  of  the 
naughty  words  ; and  at  last,  the  shipwreck  in  “ Don  Juan,” — of 
which,  finding  me  rightly  appreciative,  m}’’  father  went  on 
with  nearly  all  the  rest.  I recollect  that  he  and  my  mother 
looked  across  the  table  at  each  other  with  something  of  alarm, 
when,  on  asking  me  a few  festas  afterward  what  we  should 
have  for  after-dinner  reading,  I instantly  answered  “Juan  and 
Haidee.”  My  selection  was  not  adopted,  and,  feeling  there 
was  something  wrong  somewhere,  I did  not  press  it,  attempt- 
ing even  some  stutter  of  apology  which  made  matters  worse. 
Perhaps  I was  given  a bit  of  “Childe  Harold  ” instead,  which  I 
liked  at  that  time  nearly  as  well ; and  indeed,  the  story  of 
Haidee  soon  became  too  sad  for  me.  But  very  certainly,  by 
the  end  of  this  year  1834,  I knew  my  Byron  pretty  well  ail 
through,  all  but  “ Cain,”  “ Werner,”  the  “ Deformed  Trans- 
formed,” and  “ Vision  of  Judgment,”  none  of  which  I could 
understand,  nor  did  papa  and  mamma  think  it  would  be  well 
I should  try  to. 

The  ingenuous  reader  may  perhaps  be  so  much  surprised 
that  mamma  fell  in  with  all  this,  that  it  becomes  here  needful 
to  mark  for  him  some  peculiarities  in  my  mother’s  prudery 
which  he  could  not  discover  for  himself,  from  anything 
hitherto  told  of  her.  He  might  indeed  guess  that,  after  taking 


122 


PM^TERITA. 


me  at  least  six  times  straight  through  the  Bible,  she  was  not 
afraid  of  plain  words  to,  or  for,  me  ; but  might  not  feel  that 
iu  the  energy  and  affectionateness  of  her  character,  she  had  as 
much  sympathy  with  all  that  is  noble  and  beautiful  in  Byron 
as  my  father  himself;  nor  that  her  Puritanism  was  clear 
enough  in  common  sense  to  see  that,  while  Shakespeare  and 
Burns  lay  open  on  the  table  all  da}',  there  was  no  reason  for 
much  mystery  with  Byron  (though  until  later  I was  not 
allowed  to  read  him  for  myself).  She  had  trust  in  my  dis- 
position and  education,  and  was  no  more  afraid  of  my  turning 
out  a Corsair  or  a Giaour  than  a Kichard  III,  or  a — Solomon. 
And  she  was  perfectly  right,  so  far.  I never  got  the  slightest 
harm  from  Byron  : what  harm  came  to  me  was  from  the  facts 
of  life,  and  from  books  of  a baser  kind,  including  a wide 
range  of  the  works  of  authors  popularly  considered  extremely 
instructive — from  Victor  Hugo  down  to  Doctor  Watts. 

Farther,  I will  take  leave  to  explain  in  this  place  what  I 
meant  by  saying  that  my  mother  was  an  “ inoffensive  ” prude. 
She  was  herself  as  strict  as  Alice  Bridgenorth  ; but  she  under- 
stood the  doctrine  of  the  religion  she  had  learnt,  and,  without 
ostentatiously  calling  herself  a miserable  sinner,  knew  that 
according  to  that  doctrine,  and  probably  in  fact,  Madge  Wild- 
fire was  no  worse  a sinner  than  she.  She  was  like  her  sister 
in  universal  charity — had  sympathy  with  every  passion,  as  well 
as  every  virtue,  of  true  v/omanhood  ; and,  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  perhaps  liked  the  real  Margherita  Cogni  quite  as  well 
as  the  ideal  wife  of  Faliero. 

And  there  was  one  more  feature  in  my  mother’s  character 
which  must  be  here  asserted  at  once,  to  put  an  end  to  tlie 
notion  of  which  I see  traces  in  some  newspaper  comments  on 
my  past  descriptions  of  her,  that  she  was  in  any  wise  like  Es- 
ther’s religious  aunt  in  “ Bleak  House.”  Far  on  the  contrary, 
there  was  a hearty,  frank,  and  sometimes  even  iiTepressible, 
laugh  in  my  mother!  Never  sardonic,  yet  with  a very  defi- 
nitely Smollettesque  turn  in  it  I so  that  between  them- 
selves, she  and  my  father  enjoyed  their  ‘‘Humphrey  Clinker” 
extremely,  long  before  I was  able  to  understand  either  the 
jest  or  gist  of  it.  Much  more,  she  could  exult  in  a harmless 


TESTER,  GAMENJS. 


123 


"bit  of  Smollettesque  reality".  Years  and  years  after  this  time, 
in  one  of  our  crossings  of  the  Simplon,  just  at  the  top,  where 
we  had  stopped  to  look  about  us,  Nurse  Anne  sat  down  to  rest 
herself  on  the  railings  at  the  roadside,  just  in  front  of  the  mon- 
astery ; — the  off  roadside,  from  which  the  bank  slopes  steeply 
dowm  outside  the  fence.  Turning  to  observe  the  panoramic 
picturesque,  Anne  lost  her  balance,  and  went  back\vard  over 
the  railings  down  the  bank.  My  father  could  not  help  sug- 
gesting that  she  had  done  it  expressly  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  Holy  Fathers  ; and  neither  he  nor  my  mother  could 
ever  speak  of  the  “ performance  ” (as  they  called  it)  afterward, 
without  laughing  for  a quarter  of  an  hour. 

If,  however,  there  was  the  least  bitterness  or  irony  in  a jest, 
my  mother  did  not  like  it ; but  my  father  and  I liked  it  all 
the  more,  if  it  were  just ; and,  so  far  as  I could  understand 
it,  I rejoiced  in  all  the  sarcasm  of  ‘‘Don  Juan.”  But  my  firm 
decision,  as  soon  as  I got  v/ell  into  the  latter  cantos  of  it,  that 
Byron  was  to  be  my  master  in  verse,  as  Turner  in  color,  was 
made  of  course  in  that  gosling  (or  say  cygnet)  epoch  of  exist- 
ence, without  consciousness  of  the  deeper  instincts  that 
prompted  it : only  tw^o  things  I consciously  recognized,  that 
his  truth  of  observation  w^as  the  most  exact,  and  his  chosen 
expression  the  most  concentrated,  that  I had  yet  found  in  lit- 
erature. By  that  time  my  father  had  himself  put  me  through 
the  tw'o  first  books  of  Livy,  and  I knew,  therefore,  what  close- 
set  language  was  ; but  I saw  then  that  Livy,  as  afterward  tlmt 
Horace  and  Tacitus,  were  studiously,  often  laboriously,  and 
sometimes  obscurely,  concentrated  : while  Byron  wrote,  as 
easily  as  a hawk  flies,  and  as  clearly  as  a lake  reflects,  the 
exact  truth  in  the  precisely  narrovv^est  terms  ; nor  only  the 
exact  truth,  but  the  most  central  and  useful  one. 

Of  course  I could  no  more  measure  Byron’s  greater  powers 
at  that  time  than  I could  Turner’s  ; but  I saw  that  both  were 
right  in  all  things  that  I knew  right  from  wrong  in  ; and  that 
they  must  thenceforth  be  my  masters,  each  in  his  own  domain. 
The  modern  reader,  not  to  say  also  modern  scholar,  is  usually 
so  ignorant  of  the  essential  qualities  of  Byron,  that  I cannot 
go  farther  in  the  story  of  my  own  novitiate  under  him  without 


124 


PBJETEBITA. 


illustrating,  by  rapid  example,  the  things  which  I saw  to  be 
unrivalled  in  his  work. 

For  this  purpose  I take  his  common  prose,  rather  than 
his  verse,  since  his  modes  of  rhythm  involve  other  questions 
than  those  with  which  I am  now  concerned.  Bead,  for  chance- 
first,  the  sentence  on  Sheridan,  in  his  letter  to  Thomas  Moore, 
from  Venice,  June  1st  (or  dawn  of  June  2d !),  1818.  “ The 

Whigs  abuse  him  ; however,  he  never  left  them,  and  such 
blunderers  deserve  neither  credit  nor  compassion.  As  for  his 
creditors — remember  Sheridan  never  had  a shilling,  and  was 
thrown,  with  great  powers  and  passions,  into  the  thick  of  the 
world,  and  placed  upon  the  pinnacle  of  success,  with  no  otlier 
external  means  to  support  him  in  his  elevation.  Did  Fox  pay 

his  debts?  or  did  Sheridan  take  a subscription?  Was ’s 

drunkenness  more  excusable  than  his?  Were  his  intrigues 
more  notorious  than  those  of  all  his  contemporaries  ? and  is 
his  memory  to  be  blasted  and  theirs  respected?  Don’t  let 
yourself  be  led  away  by  clamor,  but  compare  him  with  the 
coalitioner  Fox,  and  the  pensioner  Burke,  as  a man  of  princi- 
ple ; and  with  ten  hundred  thousand  in  personal  views  ; and 
with  none  in  talent,  for  he  beat  them  all  out  and  out.  With- 
out means,  without  connection,  without  character  (which  might 
be  false  at  first,  and  drive  him  mad  afterward  from  despera- 
tion), he  beat  them  all,  in  all  he  ever  attempted.  But,  alas 
poor  human  nature  ! Good-night,  or  rather  morning.  It  is 
four,  and  the  dawn  gleams  over  the  Grand  Canal,  and  unshad- 
ows the  Bialto.” 

Now,  observe,  that  passage  is  noble,  primarily  because  it 
contains  the  utmost  number  that  will  come  together  into  the 
space,  of  absolutely  just,  wise,  and  kind  thoughts.  But  it  is 
more  than  noble,  it  is  perfect^  because  the  quantity  it  holds  is 
not  artificially  or  intricately  concentrated,  but  with  the  serene 
swiftness  of  a smith’s  hammer-strokes  on  hot  iron  ; and  with 
choice  of  terms  which,  each  in  its  place,  will  convey  far  more 
than  they  mean  in  the  dictionary.  Thus,  “however  ” is  used 
instead  of  “yet,”  because  it  stands  for  “howsoever,”  or,  in 
full,  for  “yet  whatever  they  did.”  “Thick”  of  society,  be- 
cause it  means,  not  merely  the  crowd,  but  the  fog  of  it ; “ ten 


VESTEB,  OAMEK^. 


125 


hundred  thousand”  instead  of  “a  million,”  or  a thousand 
thousand,”  to  take  the  sublimity  out  of  the  number  and  make 
us  feel  that  it  is  a number  of  nobodies.  Then  the  sentence 
in  parenthesis,  “ which  might  be  false,”  etc.,  is  indeed  obscure, 
because  it  was  impossible  to  clarify  it  without  a regular  pause, 
and  much  loss  of  time  ; and  the  reader’s  sense  is  therefore  left 
to  expand  it  for  himself  into  “it  was,  perhaps,  falsely  said  of 
him  at  first,  that  he  had  no  character,”  etc.  Finally,  the  dawn 
“ unshadows  ” — lessens  the  shadow  on — the  Eialto,  but  does 
not  gleam  on  that,  as  on  the  broad  water. 

Next,  take  the  two  sentences  on  poetry,  in  his  letters  to 
Murray  of  September  15th,  1817,  and  April  12th,  1818  ; (for 
the  collected  force  of  these  compare  the  deliberate  published 
statement  in  the  answer  to  Blackwood  in  1820). 

1817.  “ With  regard  to  poetry  in  general,  I am  convinced, 
the  more  I think  of  it,  that  he  (Moore),  and  all  of  us — Scott, 
Southey,  Wordsworth,  Moore,  Campbell,  I, — are  all  in  the 
wu’ong,  one  as  much  as  another ; that  we  are  upon  a wu'ong 
revolutionary  poetical  system,  or  systems,  not  worth  a damn  in 
itself,  and  from  which  none  but  Eogers  and  Crabbe  are  free  ; 
and  that  the  present  and  next  generations  will  finally  be  of 
this  opinion.  I am  the  more  confirmed  in  this  by  having 
lately  gone  over  some  of  our  classics,  particularly  Pope,  whom 
I tried  in  this  way : I took  Moore’s  poems,  and  my  own,  and 
some  others,  and  went  over  them  side  by  side  with  Pope’s, 
and  I was  really  astonished  (T  ought  not  to  have  been  so)  and 
mortified,  at  the  ineffable  distance  in  point  of  sense,  learning, 
effect,  and  even  imagination,  passion,  and  mvention,  between 
the  little  Queen  Anne’s  man,  and  us  of  the  Lower  Empire. 
Depend  upon  it,  it  is  all  Horace  then,  and  Claudian  now, 
among  us  ; and  if  I had  to  begin  again,  I would  mould  myself 
accordingly.  Crabbe’s  the  man  ; but  he  has  got  a coarse  and 
impracticable  subject,  and  ...  is  retired  upon  half-pay, 
and  has  done  enough,  unless  he  were  to  do  as  he  did 
formerly.” 

1818.  “I  thought  of  a preface,  defending  Lord  Hervey 
against  Pope’s  attack,  but  Pope — quoad  Pope,  the  poet, — 
against  all  the  world,  in  the  unjustifiable  attempts  begun  by 


126 


PRJETERITA. 


Warton,  and  carried  on  at  this  day  by  the  new  school  of 
critics  and  scribblers,  who  think  themselves  poets  because 
they  do  not  write  like  Pope.  I have  no  patience  with  such 
cursed  humbug  and  bad  taste  ; your  whole  generation  are  not 
worth  a canto  of  the  ‘ Kape  of  the  Lock,’  or  the  ‘ Essay  on 
Man,’  or  the  ‘Dunciad,’  or  ‘ anything  that  is  his.’” 

There  is  nothing  which  needs  explanation  in  the  brevities 
and  amenities  of  these  tv/o  fragments,  except,  in  the  first  of 
them,  the  distinctive  and  exhaustive  enumeration  of  the 
qualities  of  great  poetry, — and  note  especially  the  order  in 
which  he  puts  these. 

A.  Sense.  That  is  to  say,  the  first  thing  you  have  to  think 
of  is  whether  the  would-be  poet  is  a wise  man — so  also  in  the 
answer  to  Blackwood.  “They  call  him  (Pope)  the  poet  of 
reason  ! — is  that  any  reason  why  he  should  not  be  a poet  ? ” 

B.  Learning.  The  Ayrshire  ploughman  may  have  good 
gifts,  but  he  is  out  of  court  with  relation  to  Homer,  or  Dante, 
or  Milton. 

C.  Effect.  Has  he  efficiency  in  his  verse  ? — does  it  tell  on 
the  ear  and  the  spirit  in  an  instant  ? See  the  “ effect  ” on  her 
audience  of  Beatrice’s  “ottave,”  in  the  story  at  p.  286  of  Miss 
Alexander’s  “Songs  of  Tuscany.” 

D.  Imagination.  Put  thus  low  because  many  novelists  and 
artists  have  this  faculty,  yet  are  not  poets,  or  even  good  nov- 
elists or  painters  ; because  they  have  not  sense  to  manage  it, 
nor  the  art  to  give  it  effect. 

E.  Passion.  Lower  yet,  because  all  good  men  and  women 
have  as  much  as  either  they  or  the  poet  ought  to  have. 

F.  Invention.  And  this  lowest,  because  one  may  be  a good 
poet  without  having  this  at  all.  Byron  had  scarcely  any  him- 
self, while  Scott  had  any  quantity — yet  never  could  ^write  a 
play. 

But  neither  the  force  and  precision,  nor  the  rhythm,  of 
BjTon’s  language,  were  at  all  the  central  reasons  for  my 
taking  him  for  master.  Knowing  the  Song  of  Moses 
and  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  by  heart,  and  half  tlie 
Apocalypse  besides,  I was  in  no  need  of  tutorship  either  in  the 
majesty  or  simplicity  of  English  words  ; and  for  their  logical 


VEBTER,  OAMENES. 


127 


arrangement,  I had  had  Byron’s  own  masier,  Pope,  since  I 
could  lisp.  But  the  thing  wholly  new  and  precious  to  me  in 
Bjron  was  his  measured  and  living  truth — measured,  as  com- 
pared with  Homer  ; and  living,  as  compared  with  everybody 
else.  My  own  inexorable  measuring  wand, — not  enchanter  s, 
but  cloth-worker’s  and  builder’s, — reduced  to  mere  incredi- 
bility all  the  statements  of  the  poets  usually  called  sublime. 
It  was  of  no  use  for  Homer  to  tell  me  that  Pelion  was  put  on 
the  top  of  Ossa.  I knew  perfectly  well  it  wouldn’t  go  on 
the  top  of  Ossa.  Of  no  use  for  Pope  to  tell  me  that  trees 
where  his  mistress  looked  w’ould  crowd  into  a shade,  because  I 
was  satisfied  that  they  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Hay, 
the  w'hole  world,  as  it  was  described  to  me  either  by  poetry  or 
theology,  was  every  hour  becoming  more  and  more  shadowy 
and  impossible,  I rejoiced  in  all  stories  of  Pallas  and  Venus, 
of  Achilles  and  ASneas,  of  Elijah  and  St.  John  : but,  without 
doubting  in  my  heart  that  there  v/ere  real  spirits  of  wisdom 
and  beauty,  nor  that  there  had  been  invincible  heroes  and 
inspired  prophets,  I felt  already,  with  fatal  and  increasing 
sadness,  that  there  was  no  clear  utterance  about  any  of  them 
“that  there  'were  for  me  neither  Goddess  guides  nor 
prophetic  teachers  ; and  that  the  poetical  histories,  whether 
of  this  world  or  the  next,  were  to  me  as  the  'words  of  Peter 
to  the  shut-up  disciples — “as  idle  tales;  and  they  believed 
them  not.” 

But  here  at  last  I had  found  a man  who  spoke  only  of 
what  he  had  seen,  and  known  ; and  spoke  wdthout  exaggera- 
tion, v/itliout  mystery,  without  enmity,  and  without  mercy. 
“ That  is  so  ; — make  '^diat  you  will  of  it ! ” Sliakespeare  said 
the  Alps  voided  their  rheum  on  the  valleys,  which  indeed  is 
precisely  true,  with  the  final  troth,  in  that  matter,  of  James 
Forbes, — but  it  was  told  in  a mythic  manner,  and  \vith  an  un- 
pleasant British  bias  to  the  nasty.  But  Byron,  saying  that 
“ the  glacier’s  cold  and  restless  mass  moved  onward  day  by 
day,”  said  plainly  what  lie  sa'^v  and  knew, — no  more.  So  also, 
the  “ Arabian  Nights  ” had  told  me  of  thieves  who  lived  in 
enchanted  caves,  and  beauties  who  fought  with  genii  in  the 
air  ; but  Byron  told  me  of  thieves  with  whom  he  had  ridden 


128 


PBJETEEITA. 


on  their  own  hills,  and  of  the  fair  Persians  or  Greeks  who 
lived  and  died  under  the  very  sun  that  rose  over  my  visible 
Norwood  hills. 

And  in  this  narrow,  but  sure,  truth,  to  B3Ton,  as  already  to 
me,  it  appeared  that  Love  was  a transient  thing,  and  death  a 
dreadful  one.  He  did  not  attempt  to  console  me  for  Jessie’s 
death,  by  saying  she  was  happier  in  Heaven  ; or  for  Charles’s, 
by  saying’  it  was  a Providential  dispensation  to  me  on  Earth. 
He  did  not  tell  me  that  war  was  a just  price  for  the  glory 
of  captains,  or  that  the  National  command  of  murder  di- 
minished its  guilt.  Of  all  things  within  range  of  human 
thought  he  felt  the  facts,  and  discerned  the  natures  v;ith  ac- 
curate justice. 

But  even  all  this  he  might  have  done,  and  yet  been  no 
master  of  mine,  had  not  he  sympathized  with  me  in  reverent 
love  of  beauty,  and  indignant  recoil  from  ugliness.  The 
witch  of  the  Staubbach  in  her  rainbow  was  a greatly  more 
pleasant  vision  than  Shakespeare’s,  like  a rat  without  a tail, 
or  Burns’s,  in  her  cutty  sark.  The  sea-king  Conrad  had  an 
immediate  advantage  with  me  over  Coleridge’s  long,  lank, 
brown,  and  ancient,  mariner;  and  whatever  Pope  might  have 
gracefully  said,  or  honestly  felt,  of  Windsor  woods  and  streams, 
was  mere  tinkling  cymbal  to  me,  compared  with  Byron’s  love 
of  Lachin-y-Gair. 

I must  pause  here,  in  tracing  the  sources  of  his  influence 
over  me,  lest  the  reader  should  mistake  the  analysis  whicii  I 
am  now  able  to  give  them,  for  a description  of  the  feelings 
possible  to  me  at  fifteen.  Most  of  these,  however,  were  <is- 
suredly  within  the  knot  of  my  unfolding  mind — as  the  safiron 
of  the  crocus  yet  beneath  the  earth  ; and  Byron — though  he 
could  not  teach  me  to  love  mountains  or  sea  more  than  I did 
in  childhood,  first  animated  them  for  me  with  the  sense  of 
real  human  nobleness  and  grief.  He  taught  me  the  meaning 
of  Chillon  and  of  Meillerie,  and  bade  me  seek  first  in  Venice 
— the  ruined  homes  of  Foscari  and  Falieri. 

And  observe,  the  force  with  which  he  struck  depended 
again  on  there  being  uiiquestionable  reality  of  person  in  his 
stories,  as  of  principle  in  his  thoughts.  Komance,  enough 


VE8TER,  (JAMENuE. 


129 


and  to  spare,  I had  learnt  from  Scott — but  his  Lady  of  tlie 
Lake  was  as  openjy  fictitious  as  liis  White  Maid  of  Avene! : 
while  Eogers  was  a mere  dilettante,  who  felt  no  difference 
between  landing  where  Tell  leaped  ashore,  or  standing  where 
“St.  Preux  has  stood.”  Even  Shakespeare’s  Venice  was 
visionary  ; and  Portia  as  impossible  as  Miranda.  But  Byron 
told  me  of,  and  reanimated  for  me,  the  real  people  whose  feet 
liad  worn  the  marble  I trod  on. 

Ojie  word  only,  though  it  trenches  on  a future  subject,  I 
must  permit  myself  about  his  rhythm.  Its  natural  flow  in 
almost  prosaic  simplicity  and  tranquillity  interested  me  ex- 
tremely, in  opposition  alike  to  the  symmetrical  clauses  of 
Pope’s  logical  metre,  and  to  the  balanced  strophes  of  classic 
and  Hebrew  verse.  But  though  I followed  his  manner  in- 
stantly in  what  verses  I wrote  for  my  own  amusement,  my 
respect  for  the  structural,  as  opposed  to  fluent,  force  of  the 
classic  measures,  supported  as  it  was  partly  by  Byron’s  con- 
tempt for  his  own  work,  and  partly  by  my  own  architect’s  in- 
stinct for  “the  principle  of  the  pyramid,”  made  me  long  en- 
deavor, in  forming  my  prose  style,  to  keep  the  cadences  of 
Pope  and  Johnson  for  all  serious  statement.  Of  Johnson's 
influence  on  me  I have  to  give  account  in  the  last  chapter  of 
this  volume  ; meantime,  I must  get  back  to  the  days  of  mere 
rivulet-singing,  in  my  poor  little  water-cress  life. 

I had  a sharp  attack  of  pleurisy  in  the  spring  of  ’35,  which 
gave  me  much  gasping  pain,  and  put  me  in  some  danger  for 
three  or  four  days,  during  which  our  old  family  phj^sician,  Hr. 
'Walshman,  and  my  mother,  defended  me  against  the  wish  of  all 
other  scientific  people  to  have  me  bled.  “He  wnnts  all  the 
blood  he  has  in  him  to  fight  the  illness,”  said  the  old  doctor, 
and  brought  me  v/ell  through,  weak  enough,  however,  to 
claim  a fortnight’s  nursing  and  petting  afterward,  during 
which  I read  the  “ Pair  Maid  of  Perth,”  learned  the  song  of 
“Poor  Louise,”  and  feasted  on  Stanfield’s  drawing  of  St. 
Michael’s  Mount,  engraved  in  the  “ Coast  Scenery,”  and  Tur- 
ner’s “Santa  Saba,”  “Pool  of  Bethesda,”  and  “Corinth,”  en- 
graved in  the  Bible  series,  lent  me  by  Richard  Fall’s  little  sister. 
I got  an  immense  quantity  of  useful  learning  out  of  those  four 


130 


PB^TERITA. 


plates,  and  am  very  tliankful  to  possess  now  the  originals  of 
the  Bethesda  and  Corinth. 

Moreover,  I planned  all  my  proceedings  on  the  journey  to 
Switzerland,  which  was  to  begin  the  moment  I was  strong 
enough.  I shaded  in  cobalt  a “ cyanometer  ” to  measure  the 
blue  of  the  sky  with  ; bought  a ruled  notebook  for  geological 
observations,  and  a large  quarto  for  architectural  sketches,  with 
square  rule  and  foot-rule  ingeniously  fastened  outside.  And 
I determined  that  the  events  and  sentiments  of  this  journey 
should  be  described  in  a poetic  diary  in  the  style  of  “Don 
Juan,”  artfully  combined  with  that  of  “ Childe  Harold.”  Two 
cantos  of  this  work  were  indeed  finished — carrying  me  across 
France  to  Chamouni — where  I broke  down,  finding  that  I had 
exhausted  on  the  Jura  all  the  descriptive  terms  at  my  disposal, 
and  that  none  were  left  for  the  Alps.  I must  try  to  give,  in 
the  next  chapter,  some  useful  account  of  the  same  part  of  the 
journey  in  less  exalted  language. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  COL  DE  LA  FAUCILLE. 

About  the  moment  in  the  forenoon  when  the  modern  fash- 
ionable traveller,  intent  on  Paris,  Nice,  and  Monaco,  and 
started  by  the  morning  mail  from  Charing  Cross,  has  a lit- 
tle recovered  himself  from  the  qualms  of  his  crossing,  and 
the  irritation  of  fighting  for  seats  at  Boulogne,  and  begins  to 
look  at  his  watch  to  see  how  near  he  is  to  the  buffet  of 
Amiens,  he  is  apt  to  be  balked  and  worried  by  the  train’s 
useless  stop  at  one  inconsiderable  station,  lettered  Abbeville. 
As  the  carriage  gets  in  motion  again,  he  may  see,  if  he  cares 
to  lift  his  eyes  for  an  instant  from  his  newspaper,  two  square 
towers,  with  a curiously  attached  bit  of  traceried  arch, 
dominant  over  the  poplars  and  osiers  of  the  marshy  level  he 
is  traversing.  Such  glimpse  is  probably  all  he  will  ever  wush 
to  get  of  them  ; and  I scarcely  know  how^  far  I can  make  even 


THE  COL  BE  LA  FAUCILLE. 


131 


the  most  sympathetic  reader  undertand  their  power  over  my 
own  life. 

Tiie  country  town  in  which  they  are  central, — once,  like 
Croyland,  a mere  monk’s  and  peasant’s  refuge  (so  for  some 
time  called  “Refuge”), — among  the  swamps  of  Somme,  re- 
ceived alDout  the  year  C50  the  name  of  “Abbatis  Villa,” 

• — “ Abbot’s-ford,”  I had  like  to  have  written  : house  and 
village,  I suppose  Vv^e  may  rightly  say, — as  the  chief  depend- 
ence of  the  great  monastery  founded  by  St.  Riquier  at  his 
native  place,  on  the  hillside  five  miles  east  of  the  present 
town.  Concerning  which  saint  I translate  from  the  Diet"® 
des  Sciences  Eccles*^"A  what  it  may  perhaps  be  well  for  the 
reader,  in  present  political  junctures,  to  remember  for  more 
weighty  reasons  than  any  arising  out  of  such  interest  as  he 
may  take  in  my  poor  little  nascent  personalit3\ 

“St.  Riquier,  in  Latin  ‘ Sanctus  Richarius,’  born  in  the 
village  of  Centula,  at  two  leagues  from  Abbeville,  was  so 
touched  by  the  piety  of  two  holy  priests  of  Ireland,  whom  he 
had  hospitably  received,  that  he  also  embraced  ‘la  peni- 
tence.’ Being  ordained  priest,  he  devoted  himself  to  preach- 
ing, and  so  passed  into  England.  Then,  returning  into 
Ponthieu,  he  became,  by  God’s  help,  j)owerful  in  work  and 
word  in  leading  the  people  to  repentance.  He  preeched 
at  the  court  of  Dagobert,  and,  a little  while  after  that  prince’s 
death,  founded  the  monastery  which  bore  his  name,  and 
another,  called  Forest- Moutier,  in  the  wood  of  Crecy,  where 
he  ended  his  life  and  penitence.” 

I find  further  in  the  “Ecclesiastical  History  of  Abbeville,” 
published  in  1646  at  Paris  b}^  Frau9ois  Pelican,  “Rue  St. 
Jacques,  a I’enseigne  du  Pelican,”  that  St.  Riquier  wars  him- 
self of  royal  blood,  that  St.  Angilbert,  the  seventh  abbot,  had 
married  Charlemagne’s  second  daughter  Bertha — “qui  se 
rendit  aussi  Religieuse  de  bordre  de  Saint  Benoist.”  Louis, 
the  eleventh  abbot,  w-as  cousin-german  to  Charles  the  Bald  ; 
the  twelfth  was  St.  Angilbert’s  sou,  Charlemagne’s  grandson. 
Raoul,  the  thirteenth  abbot,  was  the  brother  of  the  Empress 
Judith;  and  Carloman,  the  sixteenth,  was  the  son  of  Charles 
the  Bald. 


132 


PB^TERITA. 


Lifting  again  your  eyes,  good  reader,  as  the  train  gets  to 
its  speed,  you  may  see  gleaming  opposite  on  the  hillside  the 
white  village  and  its  abbey, — not,  indeed,  the  walls  of  the 
home  of  these  princes  and  princesses,  (afterward  again  and 
again  ruined,)  but  the  still  beautiful  abbey  built  on  their 
foundations  by  the  monks  of  St.  Maur. 

In  the  year  when  the  above-quoted  history  of  Abbeville  was 
written  (say  1600  for  surety),  the  town,  then  familiarly  called 
“Faithful  Abbeville,” contained  40,000  souls,  “living  in  great 
unity  among  themselves,  of  a marvellous  frankness,  fearing  to 
do  wrong  to  their  neighbor,  the  women  modest,  honest,  full 
of  faith  and  charity,  and  adorned  with  a goodness  and  beauty 
toute  innocente  : the  noblesse  numerous,  hardy,  and  adroit 
in  arms,  the  masterships  (maistrises)  of  arts  and  trades,  with 
excellent  workers  in  every  profession,  under  sixty-four 
Mayor-Bannerets,  who  are  the  chiefs  of  the  trades,  and  elect 
the  mayor  of  the  city,  who  is  an  independent  Home  Euler,  de 
grande  probito,  d’authorite,  et  sans  reproche,  aided  by  four 
eschevins  of  the  present,  and  four  of  the  past  year  ; having 
authority  of  justice,  police,  and  war,  and  right  to  keep  the 
weights  and  measures  true  and  unchanged,  and  to  punish 
those  who  abuse  them,  or  sell  by  false  weight  or  measure,  or 
selkanything  without  the  town’s  mark  on  it.”  Moreover,  the 
towr;  contained,  besides  the  great  church  of  St.  Wulfran, 
tliirteen  parish  churches,  six  monasteries,  eight  nunneries, 
and  five  hospitals,  among  which  churches  I am  especially 
bound  to  name  that  of  St.  George,  begun  by  our  own  Ed- 
ward in  1368,  on  the  10th  of  January  ; transferred  and  re- 
consecrated in  1469  by  the  Bishop  of  Bethlehem,  and  en- 
larged by  the  Marguilliers  in  1536,  “because  the  congrega- 
tion had  so  increased  that  numbers  had  to  remain  outside  on 
days  of  solemnity.” 

These  reconstructions  took  place  with  so  great  ease  and 
rapidity  at  Abbeville,  owing  partly  to  the  number  of  its, 
unanimous  workmen,  partly  to  the  easily  workable  quality  of 
the  stone  they  used,  and  partly  to  the  uncertainty  of  a foun- 
dation always  on  piles,  that  there  is  now  scarce  vestige  left 
of  any  building  prior  to  the  fifteenth  century.  St.  Wulfran 


THE  COL  DE  LA  FAUGILLE, 


133 


itself,  with  St.  Riquier,  and  all  that  remain  of  the  parish 
churches  (four  onl}^,  now,  I believe,  besides  St.  Wulfran),  are 
of  the  same  flamboyant  Gothic, — walls  and  towers  alike  coeval 
with  the  gabled  timber  houses  of  which  the  busier  streets 
chiefly  consisted  when  first  I saw  them. 

I must  here,  in  advance,  tell  the  general  reader  that  there 
have  been,  in  sum,  three  centres  of  my  life’s  thought : 
Rouen,  Geneva,  and  Pisa.  All  that  I did  at  Venice  was  by- 
work,  because  her  history  had  been  falsely  written  before, 
and  not  even  by  any  of  her  own  people  understood  ; and 
because,  in  the  world  of  painting,  Tintoret  was  virtually 
unseen,  Veronese  unfelt,  Carpaccio  not  so  much  as  named, 
when  I began  to  study  them  ; something  also  was  due  to 
my  love  of  gliding  about  in  gondolas.  But  RoLen,  Geneva, 
and  Pisa  have  been  tutresses  of  all  I know,  and  were  mis- 
tresses of  all  I did,  from  the  first  moments  I entered  their 
gates. 

In  this  journey  of  1835  I first  saw  Rouen  and  Venice — Pisa 
not  till  1840  ; nor  could  I understand  the  full  power  of  any  of 
those  great  scenes  till  much  later.  But  for  Abbeville,  which 
is  the  preface  and  interpretation  of  Rouen,  I was  ready  on  that 
5th  of  June,  and  felt  that  here  was  entrance  for  me  into  imme- 
diately healthy  labor  and  joy. 

For  here  I saw  that  art  (of  its  local  kind),  religion,  and 
present  human  life,  were  yet  in  perfect  harmony.  There 
v/ere  no  dead  six  days  and  dismal  seventh  in  those  sculptured 
churches  ; there  was  no  beadle  to  lock  me  out  of  them,  or 
pew-shutter  to  shut  me  in.  I might  haunt  them,  fancying 
myself  a ghost ; peep  round  their  pillars,  like  Rob  Roy  ; kneel 
in  them,  and  scandalize  nobody  ; draw"  in  them,  and  disturb 
none.  Outside,  the  faithful  old  town  gathered  itself,  and 
nestled  under  their  buttresses  like  a brood  beneath  the  moth- 
er’s wings  ; the  quiet,  uninjurious  aristocracy  of  the  newer 
town  opened  into  silent  streets,  between  self-possessed  and 
hidden  dignities  of  dwelling,  each  with  its  courtyard  and 
richly  trellised  garden.  The  commercial  square,  with  the 
main  street  of  traverse,  consisted  of  uncompetitive  shops, 
such  as  were  needful,  of  the  native  wares  : cloth  and  hosiery 


134 


PR^TEBITA. 


spun,  woven,  and  knitted  within  the  walls  ; cheese  of  neighbor- 
ing Neuchatel ; fruit  of  their  own  gardens,  bread  from  the 
fields  above  the  green  coteaux ; meat  of  their  herds,  untaint- 
ed by  American  tin ; smith’s  work  of  sufficient  scythe  and 
ploughshare,  hammered  on  the  open  anvil ; groceries  dainty, 
the  coffee  generally  roasting  odoriferously  in  the  street  be- 
fore  the  door  ; for  the  modistes, — well,  perhaps  a bonnet  or 
two  from  Paris,  the  rest,  wholesome  dress  for  peasant  and 
dame  of  Ponthien.  Above  the  prosperous,  serenely  busy  and 
beneficent  shop,  the  old  dwelling-house  of  its  ancestral  mas- 
ters ; pleasantly  carved,  proudly  roofed,  keeping  its  place, 
and  order,  and  recognized  function,  unfailing,  unenlarging, 
for  centuries.  Pound  all,  the  breezy  ramparts,  with  their 
long  waving  avenues ; through  all,  in  variously  circuiting 
cleanness  and  sweetness  of  navigable  river  and  active  mill- 
stream,  the  green  chalk- w^ater  of  the  Somme. 

My  most  intense  happinesses  have  of  course  been  among 
mountains.  But  for  cheerful,  unalloyed,  unwearying  pleas- 
ure, the  getting  in  sight  of  Abbeville  on  a fine  summer  after- 
noon, jumping  out  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Hotel  de  I’Europe, 
and  rushing  down  the  street  to  see  St.  Wulfran  again  before 
the  sun  was  off  the  towers,  are  things  to  cherish  the  past  for, 
— to  the  end. 

Of  Eouen,  and  its  Cathedral,  my  saying  remains  yet  to  be 
said,  if  days  be  given  me,  in  “ Our  Fathers  have  Told  Us.” 
The  sight  of  them,  and  following  journey  up  the  Seine  to 
Paris,  then  to  Soissons  and  Bheims,  determined,  as  aforesaid, 
the  first  centre  and  circle  of  future  life-work.  Beyond 
Bheims,  at  Bar-le-Duc,  I was  brought  again  within  the  greater 
radius  of  the  Alps,  and  my  father  was  kind  enough  to  go  down 
by  Plombieres  to  Dijon,  that  I might  approach  them  by  the 
straightest  pass  of  Jura. 

The  reader  must  pardon  my  relating  so  much  as  I think  he 
may  care  to  hear  of  this  journey  of  1835,  rather  as  what  used 
to  happen,  than  as  limitable  to  that  date  ; for  it  is  extremely 
difficult  for  me  now  to  separate  the  circumstances  of  any  one 
journey  from  those  of  subsequent  days,  in  which  we  stayed 
at  the  same  inns,  wdth  variation  only  from  the  blue  room  to 


THE  COL  DE  LA  FAUGILLE. 


135 


the  green,  saw  the  same  sights,  and  rejoiced  the  more  in  every 
pleasure — that  it  was  not  new. 

And  this  latter  part  of  the  road  from  Paris  to  Geneva,  beau- 
tiful without  being  the  least  terrific  or  pathetic,  but  in  the 
most  lovable  and  cheerful  way,  became  afterward  so  dear  and 
so  domestic  to  me,  that  I will  not  attempt  here  to  check  my 
gossip  of  it. 

We  used  always  to  drive  out  of  the  yard  of  La  Cloche  at 
Dijon  in  early  morning — seven,  after  joyful  breakfast  at  half- 
past six.  The  small  saloon  on  the  first  floor  to  the  front  had 
a bedroom  across  the  passage  at  the  west  end  of  it,  whose 
windows  commanded  the  cathedral  towmi’S  over  a low  roof  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  This  was  always  mine,  and 
its  bed  'was  in  an  alcove  at  the  back,  separated  only  by  a lath 
partition  from  an  extremely  narrow  j)assage  leading  from  the 
outer  gallery  to  Anne’s  room.  It  was  a delight  for  Anne  to 
which  I think  she  looked  forward  all  across  France,  to  open 
a little  hidden  door  from  this  passage,  at  the  back  of  the  alcove 
exactly  above  my  pillow,  and  surprise — or  wake,  me  in  the 
morning. 

I think  I only  remember  once  starting  in  rain.  Usu- 
ally the  morning  sun  shone  through  the  misty  spray  and  far- 
throwm  diamonds  of  the  fountain  in  the  southeastern  suburb, 
and  threw  long  j^oplar  shadows  across  the  road  to  Genlis. 

Genlis,  Auxonne,  Dole,  Mont-sous-Vaudrey — three  stages 
of  12  or  14  kilometres  each,  tw^o  of  18  ; in  all  about  70  kilo- 
metres — 42  miles,  from  Dijon  gate  to  Jura  foot — we  w^ent 
straight  for  the  hills  always,  lunching  on  French  plums  and 
bread. 

Level  plain  of  little  interest  to  Auxonne.  I used  to  won- 
der how  any  mortal  creature  could  be  content  to  live  wdthin 
actual  sight  of  Jura,  and  never  go  to  see  them,  all  their  lives  I 
At  Auxonne,  cross  the  Saone,  -wide  and  beautiful  in  clear 
shallows  of  green  stream — little  more,  yet,  than  a noble 
mountain  torrent ; one  saw’  in  an  instant  it  came  from  Jura. 
Another  hour  of  patience,  and  from  the  broken  j^ellow"  lime- 
stone slopes  of  Dole — there,  at  last,  they  were- — the  long 
blue  surges  of  them  fading  as  far  as  eye  could  see  to  the 


13G 


PRzETERITA. 


south,  more  abruptly  near  to  the  northeast,  where  the  bold 
outlier,  almost  island,  of  them,  rises  like  a precipitous  Wrekiu, 
above  Salins.  Bej'ond  Dole,  a new  wildness  comes  into  the 
more  undulating  country,  notable  chiefly  for  its  clay-built 
cottages  with  enormously  high  thatched  gables  of  roof. 
Strange,  that  I never  inquired  into  the  special  reason  of  that 
form,  nor  looked  into  a single  cottage  to  see  the  mode  of  its 
inhabitation ! 

The  village,  or  rural  town,  of  Poligny,  clustered  out  of 
well-built  old  stone  houses,  with  gardens  and  orchards;  and 
gathering  at  the  midst  of  it  into  some  pretence  or  manner  of 
a street,  straggles  along  the  roots  of  Jura  at  the  opening  of  a 
little  valley,  which  in  Yorkshire  or  Derbyshire  limestone 
would  have  been  a gorge  between  nodding  cliffs,  with  a 
pretty  pattering  stream  at  the  bottom  ; but,  in  Jura  is  a far 
retiring  theatre  of  rising  terraces,  with  bits  of  field  and  gar- 
den getting  foot  on  them  at  various  heights  ; a spiry  convent 
in  its  hollow,  and  well-built  little  nests  of  husbandry-building 
set  in  corners  of  meadow,  and  on  juts  of  rock  no  stream,  to 
speak  of,  nor  springs  in  it,  nor  the  smallest  conceivable  rea- 
son for  its  being  there,  but  that  God  made  it. 

“ Far”  retiring,  I said, — perhaps  a mile  into  the  hills  from 
the  outer  plain,  by  half  a mile  across,  permitting  the  main  road 
from  Paris  to  Geneva  to  serpentine  and  zigzag  cai)riciously 
up  the  cliff*  terraces  with  innocent  engineering,  finding  itseit 
every  now  and  then  where  it  had  no  notion  of  getting  to,  and 
looking,  in  a circumflex  of  puzzled  level,  where  it  was  to  go 
next  retrospect  of  the  jJain  of  Burgundy  enlarging  under 
its  backward  sweeps,  till  at  last,  under  a broken  bit  of  steep 
final  crag,  it  got  quite  up  the  side,  and  out  over  the  edge  of 
the  ravine,  where  said  ravine  closes  as  unreasonably  as  it  had 
opened,  and  the  surprised  traveller  finds  himself,  magicalty 
as  if  he  were  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk,  in  a new  plain  of  an  up- 
per world.  A world  of  level  rock,  breaking  at  the  surface 
into  yellow  soil,  capable  of  scanty,  but  healthy,  turf,  and 
sprinkled  copse  and  thicket ; with  here  and  there,  beyond,  a 
blue  surge  of  pines,  and  over  those,  if  the  evening  or  morning 
were  clear,  always  one  small  bright  silvery  likeness  of  a cloud. 


THE  COL  DE  LA  FAUCILLE. 


137 


These  first  tracts  of  Jura  differ  in  many  pleasant  ways  from 
the  limestone  levels  round  Ingleborough,  which  are  their 
English  types.  The  Yorkshire  moors  are  mostly  by  a hun- 
dred or  two  feet  higher,  and  exposed  to  drift  of  rain  under 
violent,  nearly  constant,  wind.  They  break  into  wide  fields 
of  loose  blocks,  and  rugged  slopes  of  shale  ; and  are  mixed 
with  sands  and  clay  from  the  millstone  grit,  which  nourish 
rank  grass,  and  lodge  in  occasional  morass  : the  wild  winds 
also  forbidding  any  vestige  or  comfort  of  tree,  except  here  and 
there  in  a sheltered  nook  of  new  plantation.  But  the  Jura 
sky  is  as  calm  and  clear  as  that  of  the  rest  of  France  ; if  the 
day  is  bright  on  the  plain,  the  bounding  hills  are  bright 
also  ; the  Jura  rock,  balanced  in  the  make  of  it  between 
chalk  and  marble,  weathers  indeed  into  curious  rifts  and  fur- 
rows, but  rarely  breaks  loose,  and  has  long  ago  clothed  itself 
either  with  forest  flowers,  or  with  sweet  short  grass,  and  all 
blossoms  that  love  sunshine.  The  pure  air,  even  on  this  lower 
ledge  of  a thousand  feet  above  sea,  cherishes  their  sweetest 
scents  and  liveliest  colors,  and  the  winter  gives  them  rest 
under  thawless  serenity  of  snow. 

A still  greater  and  stranger  difference  exists  in  the  system 
of  streams.  For  all  their  losing  themselves  and  hiding,  and 
intermitting,  their  presence  is  distinctlj^  felt  on  a Yorkshire 
moor ; one  sees  the  places  they  have  been  in  yesterday,  the 
wells  where  they  will  flow  after  the  next  shower,  and  a trick- 
let  here  at  the  bottom  of  a crag,  or  a tinkle  there  from  the  top 
of  it,  is  always  making  one  think  whether  this  is  one  of  the 
sources  of  Aire,  or  rootlets  of  Eibble,  or  beginnings  of  Bolton 
Strid,  or  threads  of  silver  which  are  to  be  spun  into  Tees. 

But  no  whisper,  nor  murmur,  nor  patter,  nor  song  of  stream- 
let disturbs  the  enchanted  silence  of  open  Jura.  The  rain- 
cloud  clasps  her  cliffs,  and  floats  along  her  flelds ; it  passes, 
and  in  an  hour  the  rocks  are  dry,  and  only  beads  of  dew  left 
in  the  Alchernilla  leaves,— but  of  rivulet,  or  brook,— no  vestige 
yesterday,  or  to-day,  or  to-morrow.  Through  unseen  fissures 
and  filmy  crannies  the  v/aters  of  cliff  and  plain  have  alike 
vanished,  only  far  down  in  the  depths  of  the  main  valley 
glides  the  strong  river,  unconscious  of  change. 


138 


PR^TERITA.  • 


One  is  taught  thus  much  for  one’s  earliest  lesson,  in  the 
tu^o  stages  from  Poligny  to  Champagnole,  level  over  the  ab- 
solutely crisp  turf  and  sun-bright  rock,  without  so  much  water 
anywhere  as  a cress  could  grow  in,  or  a tadpole  wag  his  tail 
in, — and  then,  by  a zigzag  of  shady  road,  forming  the  Park 
and  Boulevard  of  the  wistful  little  village,  down  to  the  single- 
arched  bridge  that  leaps  the  Ain,  which  pauses  underneath  in 
magnificent  pools  of  clear  pale  green  : the  green  of  spring 
leaves  ; then  clashes  into  foam,  half  weir,  half  natural  cas- 
cade, and  into  a confused  race  of  currents  beneath  hollow 
overhanging  of  crag  festooned  with  leafage.  The  only  mar- 
vel is,  to  anyone  knowing  Jura  structure,  that  rivers  should 
be  visible  anywhere  at  all,  and  that  the  rocks  should  be  con- 
sistent enough  to  carry  them  in  open  air  through  the  great 
valleys  without  perpetual  “ pertes  ” like  that  of  the  Phone. 
Below  the  Lac  de  Joux  the  Orbe  thus  loses  itself  indeed,  re- 
appearing seven  hundred  feet  * beneath  in  a scene  of  which 
I permit  myself  to  quote  my  Papa  Saussure’s  description. 

“ A semicircular  rock  at  least  two  hundred  feet  high,  com- 
posed of  great  horizontal  rocks  hewn  vertical,  and  divided  f 
by  ranks  of  pine  which  grow  on  their  projecting  ledges,  closes 
to  the  w^est  the  valley  of  Valorbe.  Mountains  yet  more  ele- 
vated and  covered  with  forests,  form  a circuit  round  this  rock, 
which  opens  only  to  give  passage  to  the  Orbe,  whose  source 
is  at  its  foot.  Its  waters,  of  a perfect  limpidity,  flow  at  first 
with  a majestic  tranquillity  upon  a bed  tapestried  with  beau- 
tiful green  moss  (Fontinalis  antipyretica),  but  soon,  drawn  into 
a steep  slope,  the  thread  of  the  current  breaks  itself  in  foam 
against  the  rocks  wFich  occupy  the  middle  of  its  bed,  while 
the  borders,  less  agitated,  flowing  always  on  their  green 
ground,  set  off  the  whiteness  of  the  midst  of  the  river  ; and 
thus  it  withdraws  itself  from  sight,  in  following  the  course  of 
a deep  valley  covered  with  pines,  whose  blackness  is  rendered 
more  striking  by  the  vivid  green  of  the  beeches  which  are  scat- 
tered among  them. 


* Six  Imndred  and  eighty  French  feet.  Saussure,  § 385. 
f “ Taill  s a pic,  et  entrecoiipcs.” 


TEE  COL  BE  LA  FAUCILLE. 


139 


‘‘  Ah,  if  Petrarch  had  seen  this  spring  and  had  found  there 
his  Laura,  how  much  would  not  he  have  preferred  it  to  that 
of  Vaucluse,  more  abundant,  perhaps,  and  more  rapid,  but 
of  which  the  sterile  rocks  have  neither  the  greatness  of  ours, 
nor  the  rich  parure,  which  embellishes  them.” 

I have  never  seen  the  source  of  the  Orbe,  but  would  com- 
mend to  the  reader’s  notice  the  frequent  beaut}"  of  these  great 
springs  in  literally  rising  at  the  base  of  cliffs,  instead  of 
falling,  as  one  would  have  imagined  likely,  out  of  clefts  in  the 
front  of  them.  In  our  own  English  antitype  of  the  source  of 
Orbe,  Malham  Cove,  the  flow  of  water  is,  in  like  manner, 
wholly  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  seems  to  rise  to  the  ledge 
of  its  outlet  from  a deeper  interior  pool. 

Tiie  old  Hotel  de  la  Poste  at  Champagnole  stood  just  above 
the  bridge  of  Ain,  opposite  the  town,  where  the  road  got  level 
again  as  it  darted  away  toward  Geneva.  I think  the  year 
1842  was  tlie  first  in  which  we  lengthened  the  day  from  Dijon 
by  the  two  stages  beyond  Poligny ; but  afterward,  the  Hotel 
de  la  Poste  at  Champagnole  became  a kind  of  home  to  ns  : 
going  out,  we  had  so  much  delight  there,  and  coming  home, 
so  many  thoughts,  that  a great  space  of  life  seemed  to  be 
passed  in  its  peace.  No  one  was  ever  in  the  house  but  our- 
selves ; if  a family  stopped  every  third  day  or  so,  it  was 
enough  to  maintain  the  inn,  which,  besides,  had  its  own 
farm  ; and  those  who  did  stop,  rushed  away  for  Geneva  earlv 
in  the  morning.  We,  who  were  to  sleep  again  at  Horez,  were 
in  no  hurry  ; and  in  returning  always  left  Geneva  on  Fridav, 
to  get  the  Sunday  at  Champagnole. 

But  my  own  great  joy  was  in  the  early  June  evening,  when 
we  had  arrived  from  Dijon,  and  I got  out  after  the  quicklv 
dressed  trout  and  cutlet  for  the  first  walk  on  rock  and  under 
pine. 

With  all  my  Tory  prejudice  (I  mean,  principle),  I have  to 
confess  that  one  great  joy  of  Swiss — above  all,  Jurassic  Swiss 
— ground  to  me,  is  in  its  eff'ectual,  not  merely  theoretic,  lib- 
erty. Among  the  greater  hills,  one  can’t  always  go  just  where 
one  chooses, — all  around  is  the  too  far,  or  too  steep, — one 
wants  to  get  to  this,  and  climb  that,  and  can’t  do  either  ; — but  in 


140 


PBu^TERITA. 


Jura  one  can  go  every  way,  and  be  happy  everywhere.  Gener- 
ally, if  there  w'as  time,  I used  to  climb  the  islet  of  crag  to  the 
north  of  the  village,  on  which  there  are  a few  gray  walls  of 
ruined  castle,  aud  the  yet  traceable  paths  of  its  “pleasance,” 
whence  to  look  if  the  likeness  of  white  cloud  were  still  on  the 
horizon.  Still  there,  in  the  clear  evening,  and  again  and  again, 
each  year  more  marvellous  to  me  ; the  derniers  rochers,  and 
calotte  of  Mont  Blanc.  Only  those ; that  is  to  say,  just  as 
much  as  may  be  seen  over  the  Dome  du  Goute  from  St.  Mar- 
tin’s. But  it  looks  as  large  from  Champagnole  as  it  does 
there — glowiiig  in  the  last  light  like  a harvest  moon. 

If  there  were  not  time  to  reach  the  castle  rock,  at  least  I 
could  get  into  the  woods  above  the  Ain,  and  gather  my  first 
Alpine  flowers.  Again  and  again,  I feel  the  duty  of  gratitude 
to  the  formalities  and  even  vulgarities  of  Herne  Hill,  for 
making  me  to  feel  by  contrast  the  divine  wildness  of  Jura 
forest. 

Then  came  the  morning  drive  into  the  higher  glen  of  the 
Ain,  where  the  road  began  first  to  wind  beside  the  falling 
stream.  One  never  understands  how  those  winding  roads 
steal  with  their  tranquil  slope  from  height  to  height ; it  was 
but  an  hour’s  walking  beside  the  carriage, — an  hour  passed 
like  a minute  ; and  one  emerged  on  the  high  plain  of  St. 
Laurent,  and  the  gentians  began  to  gleam  among  the  roadside 
grass,  and  the  pines  swept  round  the  horizon  with  the  dark 
infinitude  of  ocean. 

All  Switzerland  was  there  in  hope  and  sensation,  and  what 
was  less  than  Switzerland  was  in  some  sort  better,  in  its  meek 
simplicity  and  healthy  purity.  The  Jura  cottage  is  not 
carved  with  the  stately  richness  of  the  Bernese,  nor  set  to- 
gether with  the  antique  strength  of  Uri.  It  is  covered  with 
thin-slit  fine  shingles,  side-roofed  as  it  were  to  the  ground  for 
mere  dryness’  sake,  a little  crossing  of  laths  here  and  there 
underneath  the  window  its  only  ornament.  It  has  no  dainti- 
ness of  garden  nor  wealth  of  farm  about  it, — is  indeed  little 
more  than  a delicately-built  chalet,  yet  trim  and  domestic, 
mildly  intelligent  of  things  other  than  pastoral,  watch-making 
and  the  like,  though  set  in  the  midst  of  the  meadows,  the 


THE  COL  BE  LA  FAUCLLLE. 


141 


gentian  at  its  door,  the  lily  of  the  valley  wild  in  the  copses 
hard  by. 

My  delight  in  these  cottages,  and  in  the  sense  of  human  in- 
dustry and  enjoyment  through  the  whole  scene,  was  at  the 
root  of  all  pleasure  in  its  beauty  ; see  the  passage  afterward 
written  in  the  “Seven  Lamps,”  insisting  on  this  as  if  it  were 
general  to  human  nature  thus  to  admire  through  sympathy. 
I have  noticed  since,  with  sorrowful  accuracy,  how  many  peo- 
ple there  are  who,  wherever  they  hud  themselves,  think  only 
“ of  their  position.”  But  the  feeling  which  gave  me  so  much 
happiness,  both  then  and  through  life,  differed  also  curiously, 
in  its  impersonal  character,  from  that  of  many  even  of  the 
best  and  kindest  persons. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Carlyle-Emerson  correspondence, 
edited  with  too  little  comment  by  my  dear  friend  Charles 
Norton,  I find  at  page  18  this — tome  entirely  disputable,  and 
to  my  thought,  so  far  as  undisputed,  much  blameable  and 
pitiable,  exclamation  of  my  master’s  : “Not  till  we  can  think 
that  here  and  there  one  is  thinking  of  us,  one  is  loviug  us, 
does  this  waste  earth  become  a peopled  garden.”  My  training, 
as  the  reader  has  perhaps  enough  perceived,  produced  in  me 
the  precisely  opposite  sentiment.  My  times  of  happiness  had 
always  been  when  nobody  was  thinking  of  me  ; and  the  main 
discomfort  and  drawback  to  all  proceedings  and  designs,  the 
attention  and  interference  of  the  public — represented  by  my 
mother  and  the  gardener.  The  garden  was  no  waste  place  to 
me,  because  I did  not  suppose  myself  an  object  of  iuterest 
either  to  the  ants  or  the  butterflies  ; and  the  only  qualihca- 
tion  of  the  entire  delight  of  my  evening  walk  at  Champagnole 
or  St.  Laurent  was  the  sense  that  my  father  and  mother  n;ere 
thinking  of  me,  and  would  be  frightened  if  I was  five  minutes 
late  for  tea. 

I don’t  mean  in  the  least  that  I could  have  done  without 
them.  They  were,  to  me,  much  more  than  Carlyle’s  wife  to 
him  ; and  if  Carlyle  had  written,  instead  of,  that  he  wanted 
Emerson  to  think  of  him  in  America,  that  he  wanted  his 
father  and  mother  to  be  thinking  of  him  at  Ecclefechan,  it 
had  been  well.  But  that  the  rest  of  the  world  was  waste  to 


142 


PR^TERITA. 


him  unless  he  had  admirers  in  it,  is  a sorry  state  of  sentiment 
enough  ; and  I am  somewhat  tem})ted,  for  once,  to  admire  the 
exactly  opposite  temper  of  my  own  solitude.  My  entire  delight 
was  in  observing  without  being  myself  noticed, — if  I could 
have  been  invisible,  all  the  better.  I was  absolutely  interested 
in  men  and  their  ways,  as  I was  interested  in  marmots  and  cha- 
mois, in  tomtits  and  trout.  If  only  they  would  stay  still 
and  let  me  look  at  them,  and  not  get  into  their  holes  and  up 
their  heights.  The  living  inhabitation  of  the  world — the 
grazing  and  nesting  in  it, — the  spiritual  power  of  the  air,  the 
rocks,  the  waters, — to  be  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  rejoice  and 
wonder  at  it,  and  help  it  if  I could, — happier  if  it  needed  no 
help  of  mine, — this  was  the  essential  love  of  Nature  in  me, 
this  the  root  of  all  that  I have  usefully  become,  and  the  light 
of  all  that  I have  rightly  learned. 

Whether  we  slept  at  St.  Laurent  or  Morez,  the  morning  of 
the  next  day  was  an  eventful  one.  In  ordinarily  fine  weather, 
the  ascent  from  Morez  to  Les  Rousses,  walked  most  of  the 
way,  was  mere  enchantment ; so  also  breakfast,  and  fringed- 
gentian  gathering,  at  Les  Rousses.  Then  came  usually  an 
hour  of  tortured  watching  the  increase  of  the  noon  clouds  ; 
for,  however  early  we  had  risen,  it  was  impossible  to  reach  the 
Col  de  la  Faucille  before  two  o’clock,  or  later  if  we  had  bad 
horses,  and  at  two  o’clock,  if  there  are  clouds  above  Jura, 
there  will  be  assuredly  clouds  on  the  Alps. 

It  is  worth  notice,  Saussure  liimself  not  having  noticed  it, 
that  this  main  pass  of  Jura,  unlike  the  great  passes  of  the 
Alps,  reaches  its  traverse-point  very  nearly  under  the  higliest 
summit  of  that  part  of  the  chain.  The  col,  separating  the 
source  of  the  Bienne,  which  runs  down  to  Morez  and  St. 
Claude,  from  that  of  the  Valserine,  which  winds  through  the 
midst  of  Jura  to  the  Rhone  at  Bellegarde,  is  a spur  of  the 
Dole  itself,  under  whose  prolonged  masses  the  road  is  then 
carried  six  miles  farther,  ascending  very  slightly  to  the  Col 
de  la  Faucille,  where  the  chain  opens  suddenly,  and  a sweep 
of  the  road,  traversed  in  five  minutes  at  a trot,  opens  the 
whole  lake  of  Geneva,  and  the  chain  of  the  Alps  along  a hun- 
dred miles  of  horizon. 


QUEM  TCr,  MF.LPOMENE. 


143 


I have  never  seen  that  view  perfectly  but  once — in  this  year 
1835  ; when  I drew  it  carefully  in  my  then  fashion,  and  have 
been  content  to  look  back  to  it  as  the  confirming  secpiel  of 
tlie  first  view  of  the  Alps  from  Schaffliausen.  Very  few  travel- 
lers, even  in  old  times,  saw  it  at  all  ; tired  of  the  long  posting 
journey  from  Paris,  by  the  time  they  got  to  the  col  they  were 
mostly  thinking  only  of  their  dinners  and  rest  at  Geneva  ; the 
guide-books  said  nothing  about  it ; and  though,  for  every- 
body, it  was  an  inevitable  task  to  ascend  the  Rigid,  nobody 
ever  thought  there  was  anything  to  be  seen  from  the  Dole. 

Both  mountains  have  had  enormous  influence  on  my  whole 
life  ; — the  Dole  continually  and  calmly  ; the  Righi  at  sorrow- 
ful intervals,  as  will  be  seen.  But  the  Col  de  la  Faucille,  on 
that  day  of  1835,  opened  to  me  in  distinct  vision  the  Holy 
Land  of  my  future  work  and  true  home  in  this  world.  My 
eyes  had  been  opened,  and  my  heart  with  them,  to  see  and 
to  possess  royally  such  a kingdom  ! Far  as  the  eye  could 
reach — that  land  and  its  moving  or  pausing  waters  ; Arve,  and 
his  gates  of  Cluse,  and  his  glacier  fountains  ; Rhone,  and  the 
infinitude  of  his  sapphire  lake,-— his  peace  beneath  the  nar- 
cissus meads  of  Yevay — his  cruelty  beneath  the  promontories 
of  Sierre.  And  all  that  rose  against  and  melted  into  the 
sky,  of  mountain  and  mountain  snow  ; and  all  that  living 
plain,  burning  with  human  gladness — studded  with  white 
homes, — a milky  way  of  star-dwellings  cast  across  its  sunlit 
blue. 


CHAPTER  X. 

QUEM  TU,  MELPOMENE. 

Whether  in  the  biography  of  a nation,  or  of  a single  per- 
son, it  is  alike  impossible  to  trace  it  steadity  through  succes- 
sive years.  Some  forces  are  failing  while  others  strengthen, 
and  most  act  irregularly,  or  else  at  uncorresponding  periods 
of  renewed  enthusiasm  after  intervals  of  lassitude.  For  all 
clearness  of  exposition,  it  is  necessary  to  follow  first  one,  then 


144 


PllrETElUTA. 


anotlier,  without  confusing  notices  of  what  is  happening  in 
other  directions. 

I must  according!}^  cease  talk  of  pictorial  and  rhjdhinic 
efforts  of  the  year  1835,  at  this  point ; and  go  back  to  give 
account  of  another  segment  of  1113^  learning,  which  might 
have  had  better  consequence  than  ever  came  of  it,  had  the 
stars  so  pleased. 

I cannot,  and  perhaps  the  reader  will  be  thankful,  remem- 
ber an^dhing  of  the  Apolline  instincts  under  which  I averred 
to  incredulous  papa  and  mamma  that,  “though  I could  not 
speak,  I could  pla^"  upon  the  fiddle.”  But  even  to  this  day,  I 
look  back  with  starts  of  sorrow  to  a lost  opportunity  of  show- 
ing what  was  in  me,  of  that  manner  of  genius,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  a grand  military  dinner  in  the  state  room  of  the  Sus- 
sex, at  Tunbridge  Wells  ; where,  when  I was  something 
about  eight  or  nine  years  old,  we  were  staying  in  an  unad- 
venturous manner,  enjoying  the  pantiles,  the  common,  the 
sight,  if  not  the  taste,  of  the  lovely  fountain,  and  drives  to  the 
High  Rocks.  After  the  military  dinner  there  was  military 
music,  and  by  connivance  of  waiters,  Anne  and  I got  in, 
somehow,  mixed  up  with  the  dessert.  I believe  I was  rather 
a pretty  boy  then,  and  dressed  in  a not  wholly  civilian  man- 
ner, in  a sort  of  laced  and  buttoned  surtout.  My  mind  was 
extremely  set  on  watching  the  instrumental  manoeuvres  of 
the  band, — with  admiration  of  all,  but  burning  envy  of  the 
drummer. 

The  colonel  took  notice  of  my  rapt  attention,  and  sent  an 
ensign  to  bring  me  round  to  him  ; and  after  getting,  I know 
not  how,  at  m3"  mind  in  the  matter,  told  me  I might  go  and 
ask  the  drummer  to  give  me  his  lovel3^  round-headed  sticks, 
and  he  would.  I was  in  two  minds  to  do  it,  having  good 
confidence  in  m3"  powers  of  keeping  time.  But  the  dismal 
shyness  conquered;  — I shook  my  head  w'ofulty,  and  my 
musical  career  was  blighted.  No  one  will  ever  know  what  I 
could  then  have  brought  out  of  that  drum,  or  (if  my  father 
had  perchance  taken  me  to  Spain)  out  of  a tambourine. 

My  mother,  busy  in  graver  matters,  had  never  cultivated 
the  little  she  had  been  taught  of  music,  though  her  natural 


qUEM  TU,  MELPOMENE. 


145 


sensibility  to  it  was  great.  Mrs.  Richard  Gray  used  some- 
times .to  piay  gracefully  to  me,  but  if  ever  she  struck  a false 
note,  her  husband  used  to  put  his  lingers  in  his  ears,  and 
dance  about  the  room,  exclaiming,  “ O Mary,  Mary  dear  ! ” 
and  so  extinguish  her.  Our  own  Perth  Mary  played  dutiful- 
ly her  scales,  and  little  more  ; but  I got  useful  help,  almost 
unconsciously,  from  a family  of  young  people  who  ought,  if 
my  chronology  had  been  systematic,  to  have  been  affection- 
ately spoken  of  long  ago. 

Ill  above  describing  my  father’s  counting-house,  I said  the 
door  was  opened  by  a latch  pulled  by  the  head  clerk.  This 
head  clerk,  or,  putting  it  more  modestly,  topmost  of  two 
clerks,  Henry  Watson,  was  a person  of  much  import  in  my 
father’s  life  and  mine  ; import  which,  I perceive,  looking 
back,  to  have  been  as  in  many  respects  tender  and  fortunate, 
yet  in  others  extremely  doleful,  both  to  ns  and  himself. 

The  chief  fault  in  my  father’s  mind,  (I  say  so  reverently, 
for  its  faults  were  few,  but  necessarily,  for  they  were  very 
fatal,)  was  his  dislike  of  being  excelled.  He  knew  his  own 
power — felt  that  he  had  not  nerve  to  use  or  display  it,  in  full 
measure  ; but  all  the  more,  could  not  bear,  in  his  own  sphere, 
any  approach  to  equality.  He  chose  his  clerks  first  for  trust- 
worthiness, secondly  for — i5^capacit3^  I am  not  sure  that  he 
would  have  sent  away  a clever  one,  if  he  had  chanced  on  such 
a person  ; but  he  assuredly  did  not  look  for  mercantile 
genius  in  them,  but  rather  for  subordinates  wdio  would  be 
subordinate  for  ever.  Frederick  the  Great  chose  his  clerks 
in  the  same  way  ; but  then,  his  clerks  never  supposed  them- 
selves likely  to  be  king,  while  a merchant’s  clerks  are  apt  to 
hope  they  may  at  least  become  partners,  if  not  successors. 
Also,  Friedrich’s  clerks  were  absolutely  fit  for  ilieir  business  ; 
but  my  father’s  clerks  were,  in  many  ways,  utterly  unfit  for 
theirs.  Of  which  unfitness  my  father  greatly  complaining, 
nevertheless  by  no  means  bestirred  himself  to  find  fitter 
ones.  He  used  to  send  Henry  Watson  on  business  tours, 
and  assure  him  afterward  that  he  had  done  more  harm  than 
good : he  would  now  and  then  leave  Heniy  Ritchie  to  write  a 
business  letter ; and,  I think,  find  with  some  satisfaction  that 
10 


146 


PB^TEBITA. 


it  was  needful  afterward  to  write  two,  himself,  in  correction 
of  it.  There  was  scarcely  a day  when  he  did  not  come 
home  in  some  irritation  at  something  that  one  or  other  of 
them  had  done,  or  not  done.  But  they  stayed  with  him 
till  his  death. 

Of  the  second  in  command,  Mr.  Eitchie,  I will  say  what  is 
needful  in  another  place  ; but  the  clerk  of  confidence,  Henry 
Watson,  has  already  been  left  unnoticed  too  long.  He  was, 
I believe,  the  principal  support  of  a widowed  mother  and 
three  grown-up  sisters,  amiable,  well  educated,  and  fairly 
sensible  women,  all  of  them  ; refined  beyond  the  average 
tone  of  their  position, — and  desirous,  not  vulgarly,  of  keep- 
ing themselves  in  the  upper-edge  circle  of  the  middle  class. 
Not  vulgarly,  I say,  as  caring  merely  to  have  carriages  stop- 
ping at  their  door,  but  with  real  sense  of  the  good  that  is  in 
good  London  society,  in  London  society’s  way.  They  liked, 
as  they  did  not  drop  their  own  h’s,  to  talk  with  people  who 
did  not  drop  theirs  ; to  hear  w'hat  was  going  on  in  polite  cir- 
cles ; and  to  have  entree  to  a pleasant  dance,  or  rightly  given 
concert.  Being  themselves  both  good  and  pleasing  musi- 
cians, (the  qualities  are  not  united  in  all  musicians,)  this 
was  not  difficult  for  them  ; — nevertheless  it  meant  necessar- 
ily having  a house  in  a street  of  tone,  near  the  Park,  and 
being  nicely  dressed,  and  giving  now  and  then  a little  re- 
ception themselves.  On  the  whole,  it  meant  the  total  ab- 
sorption of  Henry’s  salary,  and  of  the  earnings,  in  some  offi- 
cial, or  otherwise  plumaged  occupations,  of  tw'O  brothers 
besides,  David  and  William.  The  latter,  now  I think  of  it, 
was  a West-End  wine  merchant,  sujDplying  the  nobility  with 
Clos-Vougeot,  Hochheimer,  dignifiedly  still  Champagne,  and 
other  nectareous  drinks,  of  which  the  bottom  fills  up  half  the 
bottle,  and  which  are  only  to  be  had  out  of  the  cellars  of 
Grand  Dukes  and  Counts  of  the  Empire.  The  family  lived, 
to  the  edge  of  their  means, — not  too  narrowly : the  young 
ladies  enjo}'ed  themselves,  studied  German — and  at  that  time 
it  was  thought  very  fine  and  i^oetical  to  study  German  ; — 
sang  extremely  well,  gracefully  and  easily  ; had  good  taste 
in  dress,  the  better  for  being  a little  matronly  and  old-fash- 


qUEM  TU,  3IELF0MEJSE.  U7 

ioned  : and  the  whole  family  thought  themselves  extremely 
dite,  in  a substantial  and  virtuous  manner. 

When  Henry  Watson  was  first  taken,  (then,  I believe,  a boy 
of  sixteen,)  I know  not  by  what  chance,  or  on  what  commen- 
dation, into  my  father’s  counting-house,  the  opening  was 
thought  by  his  family  a magnificent  one  ; they  were  very 
thankful  and  happy,  and,  of  course,  in  their  brother’s  interest, 
eager  to  do  all  they  could  to  please  my  father  and  mother. 
They  found,  however,  my  mother  not  very  easily  pleased  ; and 
presently  began  themselves  to  be  not  a little  surprised  and 
displeased  by  the  way  things  went  on,  both  in  the  counting- 
house  and  at  Herne  Hill.  At  the  one,  there  was  steady  work  ; 
at  the  other,  little  show  ; the  clerks  could  by  no  meaj]s  venture 
to  leave  their  desks  for  a garden-party,  and  after  dark  were 
allowed  only  tallow  candles.  That  the  head  of  the  Firm 
should  live  in  the  half  of  a party-walled  house,  beyond  the 
suburb  of  Camberwell,  was  a degradation  and  disgrace  to 
everybody  connected  with  the  business ! and  that  Henry 
should  be  obliged  every  morning  to  take  omnibus  into  the 
eastern  City,  and  work  within  scent  of  Billingsgate,  instead 
of  walking  elegantly  across  Piccadilly  to  an  office  in  St. 
James’s  Street,  was  alike  injurious  to  him,  and  disparaging  lo 
my  father’s  taste  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Also,  to  the 
feminine  circle,  my  mother  w^as  a singular,  and  sorrowfully 
intractable,  phenomenon.  Taking  herself  no  interest  in  Ger- 
man studies,  and  being  little  curious  as  to  the  events,  and 
little  respectful  to  the  opinions,  of  Mayfair,  she  v/as  apt  to 
look  with  some  severity,  perhaps  a tinge  of  jealousy,  on  what 
she  thought  pretentious  in  the  accomplishments,  or  affected 
in  the  manners,  of  the  young  people  : while  they,  on  the 
other  hand,  though  quite  sensible  of  my  mother’s  worth, 
grateful  for  her  good  will,  and  in  time  really  attached  to  her, 
were  not  disposed  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  opinions  of  a 
woman  who  knew  only  her  own  language  ; — and  were  more 
restive  than  responsive  under  kindnesses  wdiich  frequently 
took  the  form  of  advice. 

These  differences  in  feeling,  irreconcilable  though  they 
were,  did  not  hinder  the  growth  of  consistently  pleasant  and 


148 


PRMTERITA. 


sincerely  affectionate  relations  between  my  mother  and  the 
young  housewives.  With  what  best  of  girl  nature  was  in  them, 
Fanny,  Helen,  and  foolishest,  cleverest  little  Juliet,  enjoyed, 
in  sprii]g  time,  exchanging  for  a day  or  two  the  dusty  dignity 
of  their  street  of  tone  in  Mayfair  for  the  lilacs  and  labur- 
nums of  Herne  Hill:  and  held  themselves,  with  their  brother 
Henry,  always  ready  at  call  to  come  out  on  any  occasion  of 
the  Hill’s  hospitality  to  some  respected  correspondent  of  the 
House,  and  sing  to  us  the  prettiest  airs  from  the  new  opera, 
with  a due  foundation  and  tonic  intermixture  of  classical 
German. 

Henry  had  a singularly  beautiful  tenor  voice  ; and  the  three 
sisters,  though  not,  any  one  of  them,  of  special  power,  sang 
their  parts  w’ith  sufficient  precision,  with  intelligent  taste,  and 
with  the  pretty  unison  of  sistei’ly  voices.  In  this  way,  from 
early  childhood,  I was  accustomed  to  hear  a great  range  of 
good  music  completely  and  rightly  rendered,  without  break- 
ings down,  missings  out,  affectations  of  manner,  or  vulgar 
prominence  of  execution.  Had  the  quartette  sung  me  Eng- 
lish glees,  or  Scotch  ballads,  or  British  salt-water  ones,  or 
had  any  one  of  the  girls  had  gift  enough  to  render  higher 
music  with  its  proper  splendor,  I might  easily  have  been  led 
to  spare  some  time  from  my  maps  and  mineralogy  for  atten- 
tive listening.  As  it  was,  the  scientific  German  compositions 
w’ere  simply  tiresojne  to  me,  and  the  pretty  modulations  of 
Italian,  which  I understood  no  syllable  of,  pleasant  only  as 
the  trills  of  the  blackbirds,  who  often  listened,  and  ex- 
pressed their  satisfaction  by  joining  in  the  part-songs  through 
the  window  that  opened  to  the  back  garden  in  the  spring 
evenings.  Yet  the  education  of  my  ear  and  taste  went  on 
without  trouble  of  mine.  I do  not  think  I ever  heard  any 
masterly  professional  music,  until,  as  good  hap  was,  I heard 
the  best,  only  to  he  heard  during  a narrow  space  of  those 
young  days. 

I too  carelessly  left  without  explanation  the  casual  sentence 
about  “ fatal  dinner  at  Mr.  Domecq’s”  when  I was  fourteen, 
above.  Chap.  IV.,  p.  73.  My  father’s  Spanish  partner  w'as 
at  that  time  living  in  the  Champs  Elysces,  with  his  English 


QUEM  TU,  MELPOMENE. 


149 


wife  and  his  five  daughters ; the  eldest,  Diana,  on  the  eve  of 
her  marriage  with  one  of  Napoleon’s  officers,  Count  Maison  ; 
the  four  others,  much  younger,  chanced  to  be  at  home  on 
vacation  from  their  convent  school : and  we  had  happy  family 
dinner  with  them,  and  mamma  and  the  girls  and  a delightful 
old  French  gentleman,  Mr.  Badell,  plajed  afterward  at  “la 
toilette  de  Madame  ” with  me  ; only  I couldn’t  remember 
whether  I was  the  necklace  or  the  garters  ; and  then  Clotilde 
and  Cecile  played  “ les  ^fichos  ” and  other  fascinations  of  dance- 
melody, — only  I couldn’t  dance  ; and  at  last  Elise  had  to  take 
pity  oil  me  as  above  described.  But  the  best,  if  not  the 
largest,  part  of  the  conversation  among  the  elders  was  of  the 
recent  death  of  Bellini,  the  sorrow  of  all  Paris  for  him,  and 
the  power  with  wdiich  his  “I  Puritani”  was  being  rendered 
by  the  reigning  four  great  singers  for  whom  it  was  written. 

It  puzzles  me  that  I have  no  recollection  of  any  first  sight 
and  hearing  of  an  opera.  Not  even,  for  that  matter,  of  my 
first  going  to  a theatre,  though  I was  full  twelve,  before  being- 
taken  ; and  afterward,  it  was  a matter  of  intense  rapture,  of 
a common  sort,  to  be  taken  to  a pantomime.  And  I greatly  en- 
joy theatre  to  this  day — it  is  one  of  tlie  pleasures  that  liave  least 
W’oru  out  ; yet,  while  I remember  Friar’s  Crag  at  Derwent- 
water  wlien  I was  four  j-ears  old,  and  the  courtyard  of  our 
Paris  inn  at  five,  I have  no  memory  wdiatever,  and  am  a little 
proud  to  have  none,  of  my  first  theatre.  To  be  tjiken  now  at 
Paris  to  the  feebly  dramatic  “Puritani”  was  no  great  joy  to 
me  ; but  I then  heard,  and  it  will  always  be  a rare,  and  only 
once  or  twice  in  a century  possible,  thing  to  hear,  four  great 
musicians,  all  rightly  to  be  called  of  genius,  singing  together, 
wdth  sincere  desire  to  assist  each  other,  not  eclipse  ; and  to 
exhibit,  not  only  their  own  power  of  singing,  but  the  beauty 
of  the  music  they  sang. 

Still  more  fortunately  it  happened  that  a woman  of  faultless 
genius  led  the  following  dances, — Taglioni ; a person  of  the 
highest  natural  faculties,  and  stainlessly  simple  character, 
gathered  with  sincerest  ardor  and  reverence  into  her  art. 
My  mother,  though  she  allowed  me  without  serious  remon- 
strance to  be  taken  to  the  theatre  by  my  father,  had  the 


150 


PR^ETERITA. 


strictest  Puritan  prejudice  against  the  stage  ;•  yet  enjoyed  it 
so  much  that  I think  she  felt  the  sacrifice  she  made  in  not 
going  with  us  to  be  a sort  of  price  accepted  by  the  laws  of 
virtue  for  what  was  sinful  in  her  concession  to  my  father  and 
me.  She  went,  however,  to  hear  and  see  this  group  of  players, 
renowned,  without  any  rivals,  through  all  the  cities  of  Europe  ; 
— and,  strange  and  pretty  to  say,  her  instinct  of  the  inno- 
cence, beauty,  and  wonder,  in  every  motion  of  the  Grace  of 
her  century,  was  so  strong,  that  from  that  time  forth  my 
mother  would  always,  at  a word,  go  with  us  to  see  Taglioni. 

Afterward,  a season  did  not  pass  without  my  hearing 
twice  or  thrice,  at  least,  those  four  singers  ; and  I learned  the 
better  because  ray  ear  was  never  jaded  the  intention  of  the 
music  written  for  them,  or  studied  by  them  ; and  am  ex- 
tremely glad  now  that  I heard  Iheir  renderings  of  Mozart  and 
Rossini,  neither  of  whom  can  be  now  said  ever  to  be  heard  at 
all,  owing  to  the  detestable  quickening  of  the  time.  Grisi  and 
Malibran  sang  at  least  one-third  slower  than  any  modern 
cantatrice  ; * and  Patti,  the  last  time  I heard  her,  massacred 
Zerlina’s  part  in  ‘-'La  ci  darem,”  as  if  the  audience  and  she 
had  but  the  one  object  of  getting  Mozart’s  air  done  with  as 
soon  as  possible. 

Afterward,  (the  confession  may  as  well  be  got  over  at 
once,)  when  I had  got  settled  in  my  furrow  at  Christ  Church, 
it  chanced  that  the  better  men  of  the  college  had  founded  a 
musical  society,  under  instruction  of  the  cathedral  organist, 
Mr.  Marshall,  an  extremely  simple,  good-natured,  and  good- 
humored  person,  by  whose  encouragement  I was  brought  to 
the  point  of  trying  to  learn  to  sing,  “ Come  mai  posso  vivere 
se  Rosina  non  m’ascolta,”  and  to  play  the  tw’O  lines  of  prelude 
to  the  “ A te  o cara,”  and  w’hat  notes  I could  manage  to  read 
of  accompaniments  to  other  songs  of  similarly  tender  pur- 
port. In  v/hich,  though  never  even  getting  so  far  as  to  read 
with  ease,  I nevertheless,  between  my  fine  rhythmic  ear,  and 
true  lover’s  sentiment,  got  to  understand  some  principles  of 


* It  is  a pretty  conceit  of  musical  people  to  call  themselves  scientific, 
when  they  have  not  yet  fixed  their  iinit  of  time ! 


qUEM  TU,  MELPOMENE. 


151 


musical  art,  wliich  I shall  perhaps  be  able  to  enforce  with 
benefit  on  the  musical  public  mind,  even  to-day,  if  only  I can 
get  first  done  with  this  autobiography^ 

What  the  furrow  at  Christ  Church  was  to  be  like,  or  where 
to  lead,  none  of  my  people  seem  at  this  time  to  have  been 
thinking.  My  mother,  watching  the  naturalistic  and  methodic 
bent  of  me,  was,  I suppose,  traiKjuil  in  the  thought  of  my 
becoming  another  White  of  Selborne,  or  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
victorious  in  W^histonian  and  every  other  controversy.  My 
father  perhaps  conceived  more  cometic  or  meteoric  career  for 
me,  but  neither  of  them  put  the  matter  seriously  in  hand, 
however  deeply  laid  up  in  heart : and  I was  allowed  without 
remonstrance  to  go  on  measuring  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
watching  the  flight  of  the  clouds,  till  I had  forgotten  most  of 
the  Latin  I ever  knew,  and  all  the  Greek,  except  Anacreon’s 
ode  to  the  rose. 

Some  little  effort  was  made  to  pull  me  together  in  1836  by 
sending  me  to  hear  Mr.  Dale’s  lectures  at  King’s  College, 
where  I explained  to  Mr.  Dale,  on  meeting  him  one  day  in 
the  court  of  entrance,  that  porticoes  should  not  be  carried  on 
the  top  of  arches  ; and  considered  myself  exalted  because  I 
went  in  at  the  same  door  with  boys  who  had  square  caps  on. 
The  lectures  were  on  early  English  literature,  of  which,  though 
I had  never  read  a word  of  any  before  Pope,  I thought  my- 
self already  a much  better  judge  than  Mr.  Dale.  His  cpiota- 
tion  of  “Knut  the  king  came  sailing  by  ” stayed  with  me; 
and  I think  that  was  about  all  I learnt  during  the  summer. 
For,  as  my  adverse  stars  would  have  it,  that  year,  my  father’s 
partner,  Mr.  Domecq,  thought  it  might  for  once  be  expedient 
that  he  should  himself  pay  a complimentary  round  of  visits 
to  his  British  customers,  and  asked  if  meanvv^hile  he  might 
leave  his  daughters  at  Herne  Hill  to  see  the  lions  at  the 
Tower,  and  so  on.  How  we  got  them  all  into  Herne  Hill 
corners  and  cupboards  would  be  inexplicable  but  with  a plan 
of  the  three  stories  ! The  arrangements  were  half  Noah’s  ark, 
half  Do11’i3  house,  but  we  got  them  all  in  : Clotilde,  a grace- 
ful oval-faced  blonde  of  fifteen  ; Cecile,  a dark,  finely-browed, 
beautifully-featured  giid  of  thirteen  ; £lise,  again,  fair,  round- 


152 


FRMTERITA, 


faced  like  an  English  girl,  a treasure  of  good  nature  and 
good  sense ; Caroline,  a delicately  quaint  little  thing  of 
eleven.  They  had  all  been  born  abroad,  Clotilde  at  Cadiz, 
and  of  course  convent-bred  ; but  lately  accustomed  to  be 
much  in  society  during  vacation  at  Paris.  Deeper  than  any 
one  dreamed,  the  sight  of  them  in  the  Champs  filysees  had 
sealed  itself  in  me,  for  they  were  the  first  well-bred  and  well- 
dressed  girls  I had  ever  seen — or  at  least  spoken  to.  I mean 
of  course,  by  well-dressed,  perfectly  simply  dressed,  with 
Parisian  cutting  and  fitting.  They  were  all  bigoted  ” — as 
Protestants  would  say  ; quietly  firm,  as  they  ought  to  say — 
Poman  Catholics  ; spoke  Spanish  and  French  with  perfect 
grace,  and  English  with  broken  precision  ; were  all  fairly 
sensible,  Clotilde  sternly  and  accurately  so,  filise  gayly  and 
kindly,  Cecile  serenely,  Caroline  keenly.  A most  curious 
galaxy,  or  southern  cross,  of  uiiconceived  stars,  floating  on  a 
sudden  into  my  obscure  firmament  of  London  suburb. 

How  my  parents  could  allow  their  young  novice  to  be 
cast  into  the  fiery  furnace  of  the  outer  world  in  this  helpless 
manner  the  reader  may  wonder,  and  only  the  Fates  know  ; 
but  there  was  this  excuse  for  them,  that  they  had  never  seen 
me  the  least  interested  or  anxious  about  girls — never  caring 
to  stay  in  the  promenades  at  Cheltenham  or  Bath,  or  on  the 
parade  at  Dover  ; on  the  contrary,  growling  and  mewing  if  I 
was  ever  kept  there,  and  off  to  the  sea  or  the  fields  the 
moment  I got  leave  ; and  they  had  educated  me  in  such  ex- 
tremely orthodox  English  Toryism  and  Evangelicalism  that 
they  could  not  conceive  their  scientific,  religious,  and  George 
the  Third  revering  youth,  wavering  in  his  constitutional 
balance  toward  French  Catholics.  And  I had  never  mid 
anything  about  the  Champs  Elysees!  Virtually  convent-bred 
more  closely  than  the  maids  themselves,  without  a single 
sisterly  or  cousinly  affection  for  refuge  or  lightning-rod,  and 
having  no  athletic  skill  or  pleasure  to  check  my  dreaming,  I 
was  thrown,  bound  hand  and  foot,  in  my  unaccomplished 
simplicity,  into  the  fiery  furnace,  or  fiery  cross,  of  these  four 
girls, — who  of  course  reduced  me  to  a mere  heap  of  white 
ashes  in  four  days.  Four  days,  at  the  most,  it  took  to  re- 


qUEM  TU,  MELPOMENE.  153 

duce  me  to  ashes,  but  the  Mercredi  des  ceiidres  lasted  four 
years. 

Anything  more  comic  in  the  externals  of  it,  anything  more 
tragic  in  the  essence,  could  not  have  been  invented  by  the 
skilfullest  designer  in  either  kind.  In  my  social  behavior 
and  mind  I was  a curious  combination  of  Mr.  Traddles,  Mr. 
Toots,  and  Mr.  Winkle.  I had  the  real  fidelity  and  single- 
mindedness  of  Mr.  Traddles,  with  the  conversational  abilities 
of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the  heroic  ambition  of  Mr.  Winkle ; — all 
these  illuminated  by  imagination  like  Mr.  Copperfield’s,  at  his 
first  Norwood  dinner. 

Clotilde  (Adele  Clotilde  in  full,  but  her  sisters  called  her 
Clotilde,  after  the  queen-saint,  and  I Adele,  because  it  rhymed 
to  shell,  spell,  and  knell)  was  only  made  more  resplendent  by 
the  circlet  of  her  sisters’  beauty  ; while  my  own  shyness  and 
unpresentableness  were  farther  stiffened,  or  rather  sanded, 
by  a patriotic  and  Protestant  conceit,  which  was  tempered 
neither  by  politeness  nor  sympathy ; so  that,  while  in  com- 
pany I sate  jealously  miserable  like  a stockfish  (in  truth,  I 
imagine,  looking  like  nothing  so  much  as  a skate  in  an  aqua- 
rinm  trying  to  get  up  the  glass),  on  any  blessed  occasion  of 
tete-a-tete  I endeavored  to  entertain  my  Spanish-born,  Paris- 
bred,  and  Catholic-hearted  mistress  with  my  own  views  upon 
the  subjects  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  the  Battle  of  Waterloo, 
and  the  doctrine  of  Transubstantiation. 

To  these  modes  of  recommending  myself,  however,  I did 
not  fail  to  add  what  display  I could  make  of  the  talents  I 
supposed  myself  to  possess.  I wrote  with  great  pains,  and 
straining  of  my  invention,  a story  about  Naples,  (which  I had 
never  seen,)  and  “ the  Bandit  Leoni,”  whom  I represented  as 
typical  of  what  my  own  sanguinary  and  adventurous  disposi- 
tion would  have  been  had  I been  brought  up  a bandit;  and 
“ the  Maiden  Giuletta,”  in  whom  I portrayed  all  the  perfec- 
tions of  my  mistress.  Our  connection  with  Messrs.  Smith  & 
Elder  enabled  me  to  get  this  story  printed  in  Friendships 
Offering  ; and  Adele  laughed  over  it  in  rippling  ecstasies  of 
derision,  of  which  I bore  the  pain  bravely,  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  her  thoroughly  amused. 


154 


PB^TEBITA. 


I dared  not  address  any  sonnets  straight  to  herself ; but 
when  she  went  back  to  Paris,  wrote  her  a French  letter  seven 
quarto  pages  long,  descriptive  of  the  desolations  and  solitudes 
of  Herne  Hill  since  her  departure.  This  letter,  either  Elise 
or  Caroline  wrote  to  tell  me  she  had  really  read,  and  “laughed 
immensely  at  the  French  of.”  Both  Caroline  and  filise  pitied 
me  a little,  and  did  not  like  to  say  she  had  also  laughed  at 
the  contents. 

The  old  people,  meanwhile,  saw  little  harm  in  all  this.  Mr. 
Domecq,  who  was  extremely  good-natured,  and  a good  judge 
of  character,  rather  liked  me,  because  he  saw  that  I was  good- 
natured  also,  and  had  some  seedling  brains,  which  would  come 
up  in  time  : in  the  interests  of  the  business  he  was  perfectly 

ready  to  give  me  any  of  his  daughters  I liked,  who  could  also 
be  got  to  like  me,  but  considered  that  the  time  was  not  come 
to  talk  of  such  things.  My  father  was  entirely  of  the  same 
mind,  besides  being  pleased  at  my  getting  a story  printed 
in  Friendshijys  Offering,  glad  that  I saw  something  of  girls 
with  good  manners,  and  in  hopes  that  if  I wrote  poetry  about 
them,  it  might  be  as  good  as  the  “ Hours  of  Idleness.”  My 
mother,  who  looked  upon  the  idea  of  my  marrying  a Homan 
Catholic  as  too  monstrous  to  be  possible  in  the  decrees  of 
Heaven,  and  too  preposterous  to  be  even  guarded  against  on 
earth,  was  rather  annoyed  at  the  whole  business,  as  she  would 
have  been  if  one  of  her  chimneys  had  begun  smoking, — but 
had  not  the  slightest  notion  her  house  was  on  fire.  She  saw 
more,  however,  than  my  father,  into  the  depth  of  the  feeling, 
but  did  not,  in  her  motherly  tenderness,  like  to  grieve  me  by 
any  serious  check  to  it.  She  hoped,  when  the  Domecqs  went 
back  to  Paris,  we  might  see  no  more  of  them,  and  that  Adele’s 
influence  and  memory  would  pass  away — with  next  winter’s 
snow. 

Under  these  indulgent  circumstances, — bitterly  ashamed  of 
the  figure  I had  made,  but  yet  not  a whit  dashed  back  out  of  my 
daily  swelling  foam  of  fimious  conceit,  supported  as  it  was  by 
real  depth  of  feeling,  and  (note  it  well,  good  reader)  by  a true 
and  glorious  sense  of  the  newly  revealed  miracle  of  human 
love,  in  its  exaltation  of  the  physical  beauty  of  the  world  I 


QJIEM  TU,  MELPOMENE. 


155 


had  till  then  sought  by  its  own  light  alone, — I set  myself  in 
that  my  seventeenth  year,  in  a state  of  majestic  imbecility,  to 
write  a tragedy  on  a Venetian  subject,  in  which  the  sorrows  of 
my  soul  were  to  be  enshrined  in  immortal  verse, — the  fair 
heroine,  Bianca,  was  to  be  endowed  with  the  perfections  of 
Desdemona  and  the  brightness  of  Juliet, — and  Venice  and 
Love  were  to  be  described,  as  never  had  been  thought  of 
before.  I may  note  in  passing,  that  on  my  first  sight  of  the 
Ducal  Palace,  the  year  before,  I had  deliberately  announced 
to  my  father  and  mother,  and — it  seemed  to  me  stupidly  in- 
credulous— Mary,  that  I meant  to  make  such  a drawing  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  as  never  had  been  made  before.  This  I pro- 
ceeded to  perform  by  collecting  some  hasty  memoranda  on 
the  spot,  and  finishing  my  design  elaborately  out  of  my  head 
at  Treviso.  The  drawing  still  exists, — for  a wonder,  out  of 
perspective,  which  I had  now  got  too  conceited  to  follow  the 
rules  of, — and  with  the  diaper  pattern  of  the  red  and  white 
marbles  represented  as  a bold  panelling  in  relief.  No  figure 
disturbs  the  solemn  tranquillity  of  the  Biva,  and  the  gondolas 
— each  in  the  shape  of  a Turkish  crescent  standing  on  its  back 
on  the  water — float  about  without  the  aid  of  gondoliers. 

I remember  nothing  more  of  that  year,  1836,  than  sitting 
under  the  mulberry  tree  in  the  back  garden,  writing  my 
traged}^  I forget  whether  we  went  travelling  or  not,  or  wliat 
I did  in  the  rest  of  the  day.  It  is  all  now  blank  to  me,  ex- 
cept Venice,  Bianca,  and  looking  out  over  Shooter’s  Hill, 
where  I could  see  the  last  turn  of  the  road  to  Paris. 

Some  Greek,  though  I don’t  know'  wdiat,  must  have  been 
read,  and  some  mathematics,  for  I certainly  knew  the 
difference  between  a square  and  cube  root  when  I went  to 
Oxford,  and  was  put  by  my  tutor  into  Herodotus,  out  of 
whom  I immediately  gathered  materials  enough  to  write  my 
Scythian  drinking  song,  in  imitation  of  the  “Giaour.” 

The  reflective  reader  can  scarcely  but  have  begun  to  doubt, 
by  this  time,  the  accuracy  of  my  statement  that  I took  no 
harm  from  Byron.  But  he  need  not.  The  particular  form 
of  expression  which  my  folly  took  was  indeed  directed  by 
him  ; but  this  form  was  the  best  it  could  have  taken.  I got 


156 


PR^TERITA. 


better  practice  in  English  by  imitating  the  “Giaour”  and 
“ Bride  of  Abydos”  than  I could  have  had  under  any  other 
master,  (the  tragedy  was  of  course  Shakespearian  !)  and  the 
state  of  my  mind  was — my  mind’s  own  fault,  and  that  of  sur- 
rounding mischance  or  mismanagement — not  Byron’s.  In 
that  same  year,  1836,  I took  to  reading  Shelley  also,  and 
wasted  much  time  over  the  “ Sensitive  Plant  ” and  “ Epipsy- 
chidion  ; ” and  I took  a good  deal  of  harm  from  him,  in  try- 
ing to  write  lines  like  “prickly  and  pulpous  and  blistered  and 
blue  or  “it  was  a little  lawny  islet  by  anemone  and  vi’let, 
— like  mosaic  paven,”  etc.  ; but  in  the  state  of  frothy  fever  I 
was  in,  there  was  little  good  for  me  to  be  got  out  of  anything. 
The  perseverance  with  which  I tried  to  wade  through  the  “ Re- 
volt of  Islam,”  and  find  out  (I  never  did,  and  don’t  know  to  this 
day)  who  revolted  against  whom,  or  what,  was  creditable  to 
me  ; and  the  “ Prometheus  ” really  made  me  understand  some- 
thing of  ..^schylus.  I am  not  sure  that,  for  what  I was  to 
turn  out,  my  days  of  ferment  could  have  been  got  over  much 
easier  : at  any  rate,  it  was  better  than  if  I had  been  learning  to 
shoot,  or  hunt,  or  smoke,  or  gamble.  The  entirely  inscrutable 
thing  to  me,  looking  back  on  myself,  is  my  total  want  of  all 
reason,  will,  or  design  in  the  business  : I had  neither  the 
resolution  to  win  Adcle,  the  courage  to  do  without  her,  the 
sense  to  consider  what  was  at  last  to  come  of  it  all,  or  the 
grace  to  think  how  disagreeable  I was  making  myself  at  the 
time  to  everybody  about  me.  There  was  really  no  more 
capacity  nor  intelligence  in  me  than  in  a just  fledged  owlet, 
or  just  open-eyed  puppy,  disconsolate  at  the  existence  ^f  the 
moon. 

Out  of  my  feebly  melodious  complaints  to  that  luminary, 
however,  I was  startled  by  a letter  to  my  father  from  Christ 
Church,  advising  him  that  there  was  room  for  my  residence 
in  the  January  term  of  1837,  and  that  I must  come  up  to 
matriculate  in  October  of  the  instant  year,  1836. 

Strangely  enough,  my  father  had  never  inquired  into  the 
nature  and  manner  of  matriculation,  till  he  took  me  up  to 
display  in  Oxford  ; — he,  very  nearly  as  much  a boy  as  I,  for 
anything  we  knew  of  what  we  were  about.  He  never  had 


QUE3I  TU,  MELPOMENE. 


157 


any  doubt  about  putting  me  at  the  most  fashionable  college, 
and  of  coarse  my  name  had  been  down  at  Christ  Church 
years  before  I was  called  up  ; bat  it  had  never  dawned  on  my 
father’s  mind  that  there  were  two,  fashionable  and  unfashion- 
able, orders,  or  castes,  of  undergraduate  at  Christ  Church, 
one  of  these  being  called  Geiitlemen-Commoners,  the  other 
Commoners  ; and  that  these  last  seemed  to  occupy  an  almost 
bisoctional  point  between  the  Gentlemen-Commoners  and  the 
Servitors.  All  these  “ invidious  ” distinctions  are  now  done 
away  with  in  our  Reformed  University.  Nobody  sets  up  for 
tlie  special  rank  of  a gentleman,  but  nobody  will  be  set  down 
as  a commoner  ; and  tliough,  of  the  old  people,  anybody  will 
beg  or  canvass  for  a place  for  their  children  in  a cliarity 
school,  everybody  would  be  furious  at  the  thought  of  his  son’s 
wearing,  at  college,  the  gown  of  a Servitor. 

How  far  I agree  with  the  modern  British  citizen  in  these 
lofty  sentimei]ts,  my  general  writings  have  enough  shown  ; 
but  I leave  the  reader  to  form  his  own  opinions  without 
any  contrary  comment  of  mine,  on  the  results  of  the  exploded 
system  of  things  in  my  own  college  life. 

My  father  did  not  like  the  word  “commoner,” — all  the  less, 
because  our  relationships  in  general  were  not  uncommon. 
Also,  though  himself  satisfying  his  pride  enough  in  being  the 
head  of  the  sherry  trade,  he  felt  and  saw  in  his  son  powers 
which  had  not  their  full  scope  in  the  sherry  trade.  His  ideal 
of  my  future, — nowentirely  formed  in  conviction  of  my  genius, 
— was  that  I should  enter  at  college  into  the  best  society, 
take  all  the  prizes  every  year,  and  a double  first  to  finish  with  ; 
marry  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere ; write  poetry  as  good  as 
Byron’s,  only  pious  ; preach  sermons  as  good  as  Bossuet’s, 
only  Protestant ; be  made,  at  forty,  Bishop  of  Winchester, 
and  at  fifty.  Primate  of  England. 

With  all  these  hopes,  and  under  all  these  temptations,  my 
father  was  yet  restrained  and  embarrassed  in  no  small  degree 
by  his  old  and  steady  sense  of  what  was  becoming  to  his 
station  in  life  ; and  he  consulted  anxiousl}^  but  honestly,  the 
Dean  of  Christ  Church,  (Gaisford,)  and  my  college  tutor  that 
was  to  be,  Mr.  Walter  Brown,  whether  a person  in  his  posi- 


i5S 


PB^TEBITA, 


tion  miglit  without  impropriety  enter  his  son  as  a gentleman- 
commoner.  I did  not  hear  the  dialogues,  but  the  old  Dean 
must  have  answered  with  a grunt,  that  my  father  had  every 
right  to  make  me  a gentleman-commoner  if  he  liked,  and 
could  pay  the  fees ; the  tutor,  more  attentively  laying  before 
him  the  conditions  of  the  question,  may  perhaps  have  said, 
with  courtesy,  that  it  would  be  good  for  the  college  to  have 
a reading  man  among  the  gentlemen-commoners,  who,  as  a 
rule,  were  not  studiously  inclined  ; but  he  was  compelled  also 
to  give  my  father  a hint,  that  as  far  as  my  reading  had  already 
gone,  it  was  not  altogether  certain  I could  pass  the  entrance 
examination  which  had  to  be  sustained  by  commoners.  This 
last  suggestion  was  conclusive.  It  was  not  to  be  endured 
that  the  boy  who  had  been  expected  to  carry  all  before  him, 
should  get  himself  jammed  in  the  first  turnstile.  I was  en- 
tered as  a Gentleman-Commoner  without  further  debate,  and 
remember  still,  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  the  pride  of  first 
walking  out  of  the  Angel  Hotel,  and  past  University  College, 
holding  my  father’s  arm,  in  my  velvet  cap  and  silk  gown. 

Yes,  good  reader,  the  velvet  and  silk  made  a difference,  not 
to  my  mother  onl}%  but  to  me  ! Quite  one  of  the  telling  and 
weighty  points  in  the  home  debates  concerning  this  choice  of 
Hercules,  had  been  that  the  commoner’s  gown  was  not  only 
of  ugly  stuff,  but  had  no  flowing  lines  in  it,  and  was  virtually 
only  a black  rag  tied  to  one’s  shoulders.  One  was  thrice  a 
gownsman  in  a flowing  gown. 

So  little,  indeed,  am  I disposed  now  in  maturer  years  to 
deride  these  unphilosophical  feelings,  that  instead  of  effacing 
distinction  of  dress  at  the  University  (except  for  the  boating 
clubs),  I would  fain  have  seen  them  extended  into  the  entire 
social  order  of  the  country.  I think  that  nobody  but  duch- 
esses should  be  allowed  to  wear  diamonds  ; that  lords  should 
be  known  from  common  people  by  their  stars,  a quarter  of  a 
mile  off;  that  every  peasant  girl  should  boast  her  county  by 
some  dainty  ratification  of  cap  or  bodice  ; and  that  in  the 
towns  a vintner  should  be  known  from  a fishmonger  by  the 
cut  of  his  jerkin. 

That  walk  to  the  Schools,  and  the  waiting,  outside  the 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


159 


Divinity  School,  in  comforting  admiration  of  its  door,  my 
turn  for  matriculation,  continue  still  for  me,  at  pleasure.  But 
I remember  nothing  more  that  year  ; nor  anything  of  the  first 
days  of  the  next,  until  early  in  January  we  drove  down  to 
Oxford,  only  my  mother  and  I,  by  the  beautiful  Henley  road, 
weary  a little  as  we  changed  horses  for  the  last  stage  from 
Dorchester  ; solemnized,  in  spite  of  velvet  and  silk,  as  we 
entered  among  the  towers  in  the  twilight ; and  after  one  more 
rest  under  the  domestic  roof  of  the  Angel,  I found  myself  the 
next  day  at  evening,  alone,  by  the  fireside,  entered  into  com- 
mand of  my  own  life,  in  my  own  college  room  in  Peckwater. 


CHAPTER  XL 

CmUST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 

Alone,  by  the  fireside  of  the  little  back-room,  which  looked 
into  the  narrow  lane,  chiefly  then  of  stabling,  I sate  collecting 
my  resolution  for  college  life. 

I had  not  much  to  collect  ; nor,  so  far  as  I knew,  much  to 
collect  it  against.  I had  about  as  clear  understanding  of  mj' 
whereabouts,  or  foresight  of  my  fortune,  as  Davie  Gellatley 
might  have  had  in  my  place  ; v/ith  these  farther  inferiorities 
to  Davie,  that  I could  neither  dance,  sing,  nor  roast  eggs. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  fear  of  my  gambling,  for  I had 
never  touched  a card,  and  looked  1123011  dice  as  peoiile  now  do 
on  dynamite.  No  fear  of  my  being  tem23ted  by  the  strange 
woman,  for  was  not  I in  love  ? and  besides,  never  allowed  to 
be  out  after  half-past  nine.  No  fear  of  my  running  in  debt, 
for  there  were  no  Turners  to  be  had  in  Oxford,  and  I cared 
for  nothing  else  in  the  world  of  material  possession.  No  fear 
of  my  breaking  my  neck  out  hunting,  for  I couldn’t  have 
ridden  a hack  down  the  High  Street ; and  no  fear  of  my 
ruining  myself  at  a race,  for  I never  had  been  but  at  one  race 
in  my  life,  and  had  not  the  least  wish  to  win  anybody  else’s 
money. 

I expected  some  ridicule,  indeed,  for  these  my  sim23le  ways, 


IGO 


PRJETEPdTA. 


but  was  safe  against  ridicule  in  my  conceit : the  only  thing  I 
doubted  myself  in,  and  very  rightly,  was  the  power  of  apply- 
ing for  three  years  to  work  in  which  I took  not  the  slightest 
interest.  I resolved,  however,  to  do  my  parents  and  myself 
as  much  credit  as  I could,  said  my  prayers  very  seriously, 
and  went  to  bed  in  good  hope. 

And  here  I must  stay,  for  a minute  or  two,  to  give  some 
account  of  the  state  of  mind  I had  got  into  during  the  above- 
described  progress  of  my  education,  touching  religious  mat- 
ters. 

As  far  as  I recollect,  the  steady  Bible  reading  with  my 
mother  ended  with  our  first  continental  journey,  when  I was 
fourteen  ; one  could  not  read  three  chapters  after  breakfast 
while  the  horses  were  at  the  door.  For  this  lesson  was  sub- 
stituted my  own  private  reading  of  a chapter,  morning  and 
evening,  and,  of  course,  saying  the  Lord’s  Prayer  after  it, 
and  asking  for  everything  that  was  nice  for  myself  and  my 
family  ; after  which  I waked  or  slept,  without  much  thought 
of  anything  but  my  earthl}^  affairs,  whether  by  night  or  day. 

It  had  never  entered  into  my  head  to  doubt  a word  of  the 
Bible,  though  I saw  well  enough  already  that  its  words  were  to 
be  understood  otherwise  than  I had  been  taught ; but  the  more 
I believed  it,  the  less  it  did  me  any  good.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  Abraham  to  do  what  angels  bid  him, — so  would  I,  if  any 
angels  bid  me  ; but  none  had  ever  appeared  to  me  that  I knew 
of,  not  even  Adele,  who  couldn’t  be  an  angel  because  she  was 
a Roman  Catholic. 

Also,  if  I had  lived  in  Christ’s  time,  of  course  I w^ould  have 
gone  with  Him  up  to  the  mountain,  or  sailed  with  Him  on 
the  Lake  of  Galilee ; but  that  was  quite  another  thing  from 
g(ung  to  Beresford  Chapel,  Walworth,  or  St.  Bride’s,  Fleet 
Street.  Also,  though  I felt  myself  somehow  called  to  imitate 
Christian  in  the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress,”  I couldn’t  see  that  either 
Billiter  Street  and  the  Tower  Wharf,  where  my  father  had 
his  cellars,  or  the  cherry-blossomed  garden  at  Herne  Hill, 
where  my  mother  potted  her  flowers,  could  be  places  I was 
bound  to  fly  from  as  in  the  City  of  Destruction.  Without 
much  reasoning  on  the  matter,  I had  virtually  concluded 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


IGl 


from  my  general  Bible  reading  that,  never  having  meant  or 
done  any  harm  that  I knew  of,  I could  not  be  in  danger  of 
hell  : while  I saw  also  that  even  the  creme  do  la  creme  of 
religious  people  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  go  to  heaven. 
On  the  whole,  it  seemed  to  me,  all  that  was  required  of  me 
was  to  say  my  prayers,  go  to  church,  learn  my  lessons,  obey 
iny  parents,  and  enjoy  my  dinner. 

Thus  minded,  in  the  slowly  granted  light  of  the  winter 
morning  I looked  out  upon  the  view  from  my  college  windows, 
of  Christ  Church  library  and  the  smooth-gravelled  square  of 
Peck  water,  vexed  a little  because  I w^as  not  in  an  oriel  window 
looking  out  on  a Gothic  chapel  : but  quite  unconscious  of  the 
real  condemnation  I had  fallen  under,  or  of  the  loss  that  was 
involved  to  me  in  having  nothing  but  Christ  Church  library, 
and  a gravelled  square,  to  see  out  of  wdiidow  during  the 
spring- times  of  two  years  of  youth. 

At  the  moment  I felt  that,  though  dull,  it  w^as  all  very  grand  ; 
and  that  the  architecture,  though  Benaissance,  v/as  bold, 
learned,  well-proportioned,  and  variously  didactic.  In  reality, 
I might  just  as  ’svell  have  been  sent  to  the  dungeon  of  Chillon, 
except  for  the  damp  ; better,  indeed,  if  I could  have  seen  the 
three  small  trees  from  the  window  slit,  and  good  groining  and 
pavement,  instead  of  the  modern  vulgar  upholstery  of  my 
room  furniture. 

Even  the  first  sight  of  college  chapel  disappointed  me,  after 
the  large  churches  abroad  ; but  its  narrow  vaults  had  very 
different  offices. 

On  the  whole,  of  important  places  and  services  for  the 
Christian  souls  of  England,  the  choir  of  Christ  Church  was  at 
that  epoch  of  Englisli  history  virtually  the  navel,  and  seat  of 
life.  There  remained  in  it  the  traditions  of  Saxon,  Norman, 
Elizabethan,  religion  unbroken, — the  memory  of  loyalty,  {he 
reality  of  learning,  and,  in  nominal  obedience  at  least,  and  in 
the  heart  of  them  with  true  docility,  stood  every  morning,  to 
be  animated  for  the  highest  duties  owed  to  their  country,  the 
noblest  of  English  }’outh.  The  greater  number  of  the  peers 
of  Eugland,  and,  as  a rule,  the  best  of  her  squirealty,  passed 
necessarily  through  Christ  Church. 

11 


1G2 


PM^TElilTA. 


The  cathedral  itself  was  an  epitome  of  English  history. 
Every  stone,  every  pane  of  glass,  every  panel  of  woodwork, 
was  true,  and  of  its  time, — not  an  accursed  sham  of  architect’s 
job.  The  first  shrine  of  St.  Frideswide  had  indeed  been  de- 
stroyed, and  her  body  rent  and  scattered  on  the  dust  by  the 
Puritan  ; but  her  second  shrine  was  still  beautiful  in  its  kind, 
— most  lovely  English  work  both  of  heart  and  hand.  The 
Norman  vaults  above  were  true  English  Norman  ; bad  and 
rude  enough,  but  the  best  we  could  do  with  our  own  wits,  and 
no  French  help.  The  roof  was  true  Tudor, — grotesque,  in- 
ventively constructive,  delicately  carved  ; it,  with  the  roof  of 
the  hall  staircase,  summing  the  builder’s  skill  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  The  west  window,  with  its  clumsy  painting  of  the 
Adoration  of  the  Shejpherds,  a monument  of  the  transition 
from  window  to  picture  which  ended  in  Dutch  pictures  of  the 
cattle  v/ithout  either  shepherds  or  Christ, — but  still,  the  best 
men  could  do  of  the  day  ; and  the  plain  final  woodwork  of 
the  stalls  represented  still  the  last  art  of  living  England  in  the 
form  of  honest  and  comfortable  carpentry. 

In  this  choir,  written  so  closely  and  consecutively  with  in- 
disputable British  history,  met  every  morning  a congregation 
representing  the  best  of  what  Britain  had  become, — orderly, 
as  the  crew  of  a man-of  war,  in  the  goodly  shijD  of  their  tem- 
ple. Every  man  in  his  place,  according  to  his  rank,  age,  and 
learning  ; every  man  of  sense  or  heart  there  recognizing  that 
he  was  either  fLilfilling,  or  being  prepared  to  fulfil,  the  gravest 
duties  required  of  Englishmen.  A well-educated  foreigner, 
admitted  to  that  morning  service,  might  have  learned  and 
judged  more  quickly  and  justly  what  the  country  had  been, 
and  still  had  power  to  be,  than  by  months  of  stay  in  court  or 
city.  There,  in  his  stall,  sat  the  greatest  divine  of  England, 
— under  his  commandant  niche,  her  greatest  scholar, — among 
the  tutors  the  present  Dean  Liddell,  and  a man  of  curious 
intellectual  power  and  simple  virtue,  Osborne  Gordon.  The 
group  of  noblemen  gave,  in  the  Marquis  of  Kildare,  Earl  of 
Desart,  Earl  of  Emlyn,  and  Francis  Charteris,  now  Lord 
Wemyss, — the  brightest  types  of  high  race  and  active  ]:»ower. 
Henry  Acland  and  Charles  Newton  among  the  senior  under- 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR, 


1G3 


graduates,  and  I among  the  freshmen,  sliowed,  if  one  had 
known  it,  elements  of  curious  possibilities  in  coming  days. 
None  of  us  then  conscious  of  any  need  or  chance  of  change, 
least  of  all  the  stern  captain,  who,  with  rounded  brow  and 
glittering  dark  eye,  led  in  his  old  thunderous  Latin  the  re- 
sponses of  the  morning  prayer. 

For  all  that  I saw,  and  was  made  to  think,  in  that  cathedral 
choir,  I am  most  thankful  to  this  day. 

The  inlluence  on  me  of  the  next  goodliest  part  of  the  col- 
lege buildings, — the  hall, — was  of  a different  and  curiously 
mixed  character.  Had  it  only  been  used,  as  it  only  ought  to 
have  been,  for  festivity,  and  magnificence, — for  the  refectory 
daily,  the  reception  of  guests,  the  delivery  of  speeches  on 
state  occasions,  and  the  like, — the  hall,  like  the  cathedralTy 
would  have  had  an  entirely  salutary  and  beneficently  solemn- 
izing effect  on  me,  hallowing  to  me  my  daily  bread,  or,  if  our  ' 
Dean  Abbot  had  condescended  sometimes  to  dine  with  us, 
our  incidental  venison.  But  with  the  extremely  bad  taste 
(wliicli,  to  my  mind,  is  our  cardinal  modern  sin,  the  staple  to 
the  hinge  of  our  taste  for  money,  and  distaste  for  money’s 
worth,  and  every  other  worthiness) — in  that  bad  taste,  I say, 
the  Abbot  allowed  our  Hall  to  be  used  for  “ collections.”  Tlie 
word  is  wholly  abominable  to  my  mind,  whether  as  express- 
ing extorted  charities  in  church,  or  extracted  knowledge  in 
examination.  “Collections,”  in  scholastic  sense,  meant  the 
college  examination  at  the  end  of  every  term,  at  which  the 
Abbot  had  always  the  worse  than  bad  taste  to  be  present  as 
our  inquisitor,  though  he  had  never  once  presided  at  our  table 
as  our  host.  Of  course  the  collective  quantity  of  Greek  pos- 
sessed by  all  the  undergraduate  heads  in  hall,  was  to  him, 
infinitesimal.  Scornful  at  once,  and  vindictive,  thunderous 
always,  more  sullen  and  threatening  as  the  day  wmnt  on,  he 
stalked  with  baleful  emanation  of  Gorgonian  cold  from  dais  to 
door,  and  door  to  dais,  of  the  majestic  torture  chamber,-— vast 
as  the  great  council  hall  of  Venice,  but  degraded  now  by  the 
mean  terrors,  swallow-like  under  its  eaves,  of  doleful  creatures 
who  had  no  counsel  in  them,  except  how  to  hide  their  crib  in 
time,  at  each  fateful  Abbot’s  transit.  Of  course  I never  used 


1G4 


PB^TERITA. 


a crib,  but  I believe  the  Dean  would  rather  I had  used  fift}^, 
than  borne  the  puzzled  and  hopeless  aspect  which  I presented 
toward  the  afternoon,  over  whatever  I had  to  do.  And  as 
iny  Latin  writing  was,  I suppose,  the  worst  in  the  universit}', 

■ — as  I never  by  any  chance  knew  a first  from  a second  future, 
or,  even  to  the  end  of  my  Oxford  career,  could  get  into  my 
head  where  the  Pelasgi  lived,  or  where  the  Heraclidm  returned 
from, — it  may  be  imagined  with  what  sort  of  countenance  the 
Dean  gave  me  his  first  and  second  fingers  to  shake  at  our 
parting,  or  with  what  comfort  I met  the  inquiries  of  my  father 
and  mother  as  to  the  extent  to  which  I was,  in  college 
opinion,  carrying  all  before  me. 

As  time  went  on,  the  aspect  of  my  college  hall  to  me  meant 
little  more  than  the  fear  and  shame  of  those  examination 
days  ; but  even  in  the  first  surprise  and  sublimity  of  finding 
myself  dining  there,  were  many  reasons  for  the  qualification  of 
my  pleasure.  The  change  from  our  front  parlor  at  Hei-ne 
Hill,  some  fifteen  feet  by  eighteen,  and  meat  and  pudding 
with  my  mother  and  Mary,  to  a hall  about  as  big  as  the  nave 
of  Canterbury  Cathedral,  with  its  extremity  lost  in  mist,  its 
roof  in  darkness,  and  its  company,  an  innumerable,  immeasur- 
able vision  in  vanishing  perspective,  was  in  itself  more  appal- 
ling to  me  than  appetizing  ; but  also,  from  first  to  last,  I had 
the  clownish  feeling  of  having  no  business  there. 

In  the  cathedral,  however  born  or  bred,  I felt  myself  present 
by  as  good  a right  as  its  bishop, — nay,  that  in  some  of  its 
lessons  and  uses,  the  building  was  less  his  than  mine.  But 
at  table,  with  this  learned  and  lordly  perspective  of  guests, 
and  state  of  worldly  service,  I had  nothing  to  do  ; my  own 
proper  style  of  dining  was  for  ever,  I felt,  divided  from  this 
— impassably.  With  baked  potatoes  under  the  mutton,  just 
out  of  the  oven,  into  the  little  parlor  off  the  shop  in  Market 
Street,  or  beside  a gypsy’s  kettle  on  Addington  Hill  (not  that 
I had  ever  been  beside  a gypsy’s  kettle,  but  often  wanted  to 
be)  ; or  with  an  oak-cake  and  butter — for  I was  always  a gour- 
mand— in  a Scotch  shepherd’s  cottage,  to  be  divided  with  his 
collie,  I was  myself,  and  in  my  place:  Imt  at  the  gentleraen- 
commoners’  table,  in  Cardinal  Wolsey’s  dining-room,  I was, 


I 


' 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


165 


in  all  sorts  of  ways  at  once,  less  than  myself,  and  in  all  sorts 
of  wrong  places  at  once,  out  of  my  place. 

I may  as  well  here  record  a somewhat  comic  incident, 
j extremely  trivial,  which  took  place  a little  while  afterward ; 

‘ and  v/hich,  in  spite  of  its  triviality,  farther  contributed  to 
|:  diminish  in  my  own  mind  the  charm  of  Christ  Church  hall. 

I had  been  received  as  a good-humored  and  inoffensive  little 
; cur,  contemptuously,  yet  kindl}',  among  the  dogs  of  race  at 
‘ the  gentlemen-commoners’  table  ; and  my  tutor,  and  the  men 
i who  read  in  class  with  me,  were  beginning  to  recognize  that 
; I had  some  little  gift  in  reading  with  good  accent,  thinking  of  ^ 
what  I read,  and  even  asking  troublesome  questions  about  it, 

I to  the  extent  of  being  one  day  eagerly  and  admiringly  con- 
gratulated by  the  whole  class  the  moment  Ave  got  into  quad, 

\ on  the  consummate  manner  in  which  I had  floored  our  tutor. 

I having  had  no  more  intention  to  floor,  or  consciousness  of 
, flooring,  the  tutor,  than  a babe  unborn ! but  had  only  hap- 
|i  pened,  to  the  exquisite  joy  of  my  companions,  to  ask  him 
something  which  he  didn’t  happen  to  know.  But,  a good 
while  before  attaining  this  degree  of  public  approval,  I had 
i'  made  a direct  attempt  to  bring  myself  into  favorable  notice, 
which  had  been  far  less  successful. 

It  was  an  institution  of  the  college  that  every  week  the 
undergraduates  should  write  an  essay  on  a philosophical  sub- 
ject, explicatory  of  some  brief  Latin  text  of  Horace,  Juvenal, 
or  other  accredited  and  pithy  writer  ; and,  I suppose,  as  a sort 
of  guarantee  to  the  men  that  what  they  wrote  was  really 
looked  at,  the  essay  pronounced  the  best  was  read  aloud  in 
hall  on  Saturday  afternoon,  with  enforced  attendance  of  the 
other  undergraduates.  Here,  at  least,  was  something  in  which 
I felt  that  my  little  faculties  had  some  scope,  and  both  con- 
scientiously, and  with  real  interest  in  the  task,  I wrote  my 
weekly  essay  with  all  the  sagacity  and  eloquence  I possessed. 
And  therefore,  though  much  flattered,  I was  not  surprised, 
when,  a few  weeks  after  coming  up,  ray  tutor  announced  to 
! me,  with  a look  of  approval,  that  I was  to  read  my  essay  in 
' hall  next  Saturday. 

Serenely,  and  on  good  grounds,  confident  in  my  powers  of 


I 


164 


PB^TERITA. 


a crib,  but  I believe  tlie  Dean  would  rather  I had  used  6%, 
than  borne  the  puzzled  and  hopeless  aspect  which  I presented 
toward  the  afternoon,  over  whatever  I had  to  do.  And  as 
my  Latin  writing  was,  I suppose,  the  worst  in  the  university, 
— as  I never  by  any  chance  knew  a first  from  a second  future, 
or,  even  to  the  end  of  my  Oxford  career,  could  get  into  my 
head  where  the  Pelasgi  lived,  or  where  the  Heraclidie  returned 
from, — it  may  be  imagined  with  what  sort  of  countenance  the 
Dean  gave  me  his  first  and  second  fingers  to  shake  at  our 
parting,  or  with  what  comfort  I met  the  inquiries  of  my  father 
and  mother  as  to  the  extent  to  which  I was,  in  college 
opinion,  carrying  all  before  me. 

As  time  went  on,  the  aspect  of  my  college  hall  to  me  meant 
‘ little  more  than  the  fear  and  shame  of  those  examination 
days  ; but  even  in  the  first  surprise  and  sublimity  of  finding 
myself  dining  there,  were  many  reasons  for  the  qualification  of 
my  pleasure.  The  change  from  our  front  parlor  at  Herne 
Hill,  some  fifteen  feet  by  eighteen,  and  meat  and  pudding 
with  my  mother  and  Mary,  to  a hall  about  as  big  as  the  nave 
of  Canterbury  Cathedral,  with  its  extremity  lost  in  mist,  its 
roof  in  darkness,  and  its  company,  an  innumerable,  immeasur- 
able vision  in  vanishing  perspective,  was  in  itself  more  appal- 
ling to  me  than  appetizing  ; but  also,  from  first  to  last,  I had 
the  clownish  feeling  of  having  no  business  there. 

In  the  cathedral,  however  born  or  bred,  I felt  myself  present 
by  as  good  a right  as  its  bishop, — nay,  that  in  some  of  its 
lessons  and  uses,  the  building  was  less  his  than  mine.  But 
at  table,  with  this  learned  and  lordly  perspective  of  guests, 
and  state  of  worldly  service,  I had  nothing  to  do  ; my  own 
proper  style  of  dining  was  for  ever,  I felt,  divided  from  this 
— impassably.  Y/ith  baked  potatoes  under  the  mutton,  just 
out  of  the  oven,  into  the  little  parlor  off  the  shop  in  Market 
Street,  or  beside  a gypsy’s  kettle  on  Addington  Hill  (not  that 
I had  ever  been  beside  a gypsy’s  kettle,  but  often  wanted  to 
be)  ; or  with  an  oak-cake  and  butter — for  I was  always  a gour- 
mand— in  a Scotch  shepherd’s  cottage,  to  be  divided  with  his 
collie,  I was  myself,  and  in  my  place : but  at  the  gentlemen- 
commoners’  table,  in  Cardinal  Wolsey’s  dining-room,  I was, 


165 


CHRIST  CHURCH  Ci'^piR, 

,n  al]  sorts  of  ways  at  once,  less  than  lu^l^^self,  and  in  all  sorts 
)f  wrong  places  at  once,  out  of  my  place.  V 

I may  as  well  here  record  a some^’ivJ]at  comic  incident, 
3xtreraely  trivial,  which  took  place  a littk^  while  afterward ; 
lud  v/hich,  in  spite  of  its  triviality,  farthtu’  contributed  to 
liminish  in  my  own  mind  the  charm  of  Chr.ist  Church  hall. 

L had  been  received  as  a good-humored  and  in<.offensive  little 
5ur,  contemptuously,  yet  kindl}^  among  the  dog^s^  of  race  at 
ke  gentlemen-commoners’  table  ; and  my  tutor,  anai  (lie  men 
vho  read  in  class  with  me,  were  beginning  to  recognizv^  that 
[ had  some  little  gift  in  reading  with  good  accent,  thinking 
vhat  I read,  and  even  asking  troublesome  questions  about  it, 
;o  the  extent  of  being  one  day  eagerly  and  admiringl}'-  con- 
gratulated by  the  whole  class  the  moment  we  got  into  quad, 
)ii  the  consummate  manner  in  which  I had  floored  our  tutor. 

! having  had  no  more  intention  to  floor,  or  consciousness  of 
iooring,  the  tutor,  than  a babe  unborn ! but  had  only  hap» 
)ened,  to  the  exquisite  joy  of  my  companions,  to  ask  him 
something  which  he  didn’t  happen  to  know.  But,  a good 
vhile  before  attaining  this  degree  of  public  approval,  I had 
nade  a direct  attempt  to  bring  myself  into  favorable  notice, 
vhich  had  been  far  less  successful. 

It  was  an  institution  of  the  college  that  every  week  the 
indergraduates  should  write  an  essay  on  a philosophical  sub- 
cct,  explicatory  of  some  brief  Latin  text  of  Horace,  Juvenal, 
)i*  other  accredited  and  j)ithy  writer  ; and,  I suppose,  as  a sort 
)f  guarantee  to  the  men  that  what  they  wrote  was  really 
ooked  at,  the  essay  pronounced  the  best  was  read  aloud  in 
lall  on  Saturday  afternoon,  with  enforced  attendance  of  the 
)ther  undergraduates.  Here,  at  least,  was  something  in  which 
’ felt  that  my  little  faculties  had  some  scope,  and  both  coii- 
jcientiously,  and  with  real  interest  in  the  task,  I wrote  my 
veekly  essay  with  all  the  sagacity  and  eloquence  I possessed. 
Ind  therefore,  though  much  flattered,  I was  not  surprised, 
vheu,  a few  weeks  after  coming  up,  my  tutor  announced  to 
ne,  with  a look  of  approval,  that  I was  to  read  my  essay  in 
rail  next  Saturday. 

Serenely,  and  on  good  grounds,  confident  in  my  powers  of 


166 


'Tr^tebita. 

reading  rightly,  and ‘ with  a decent  gravity  which  I felt  to 
be  becomino*  on  this'*  6i’st  occasion  of  public  distinction,  I 
read  my  essaj^,  I hay^^  reason  to  believe,  not  ungracefully  ; and 
descended  from  tlW^  rostrum  to  receive — as  I doubted  not — 
the  thanks  of  thr-  gentlemen-commoners  for  this  creditable 
presentment  of  wisdom  of  that  body.  But  poor  Clara, 
after  her  first  "ball,  receiving  her  cousin’s  compliments  in  the 
cloak-room,^  was  less  surprised  than  I by  my  welcome  from  my 
cousins  o^  long-table.  Not  in  envy,  truly,  but  in  fiery  dis- 
dain expression  through  every  form  and  manner  of 

;j2jngiish  language,  from  the  Olympian  sarcasm  of  Charteris  to 
r the  level-delivered  volley  of  Grimston,  they  explained  to  me 
that  I had  committed  grossest  lese-majeste  against  the  order  of 
gentlemen-commoners  ; that  no  gentleman-commoner’s  essay 
ought  ever  to  contain  more  than  twelve  lines,  with  four  words 
in  each  ; and  that  even  indulging  to  my  folly,  and  conceit,  and 
want  of  savoir-faire,  the  impropriety  of  writing  an  essay  with 
any  meaning  in  it,  like  vulgar  students, — the  thoughtlessness 
and  audacity  of  writing  one  that  would  take  at  least  a quarter 
of  an  hour  to  read,  and  then  reading  it  all,  might  for  this  once 
be  forgiven  to  such  a greenhorn,  but  that  Coventry  wasn’t  the 
word  for  the  place  I should  be  sent  to  if  ever  I did  such  a 
thing  again.  I am  happy  at  least  in  remembering  that  I bore 
my  fall  from  the  clouds  without  much  hurt,  or  even  too  ridic- 
ulous astonishment.  I at  once  admitted  the  justice  of  these 
representations,  yet  do  not  remember  that  I modified  the 
style  of  my  future  essays  materially  in  consequence,  neither 
do  I remember  what  line  of  conduct  I had  proposed  to  myself 
in  the  event  of  again  obtaining  the  privilege  of  edifying  the 
Saturday’s  congregation.  Perhaps  my  essays  really  dimin- 
ished in  value,  or  perhaps  even  the  tutors  had  enough  of 
them.  All  I know  is,  I was  never  asked  to. 

I ought  to  have  noticed  that  the  first  introductions  to  the 
men  at  my  table  were  made  easier  by  the  chance  of  my  having 
been  shut  up  for  two  days  of  storm  at  the  Hospice  of  the 
Grimsel,  in  1835,  with  some  thirty  travellers  from  various 
countries,  among  whom  a Christ  Church  gentleman-com- 
moner, Mr.  Strangways,  had.  played  chess  with  me,  and  been 


CHRIST  CHURCH  C. 


167 


'^OIR. 

a little  interested  in  the  way  I drew  gra,-^ 

He  at  once  acknowledged  me  in  Hall  fcnite  among  the  snow.^ 
and  the  rest  of  his  set,  finding  they  could  g\|r  a fellow-creatur^, 
of  me  in  amusement  without  my  knowing  .';et  a good  dea  ou 
not  take  upon  myself  to  reform  their  manfih. 

Evangelical,  or  otherwise  impertinent,  point  of 

up  kindly  ; so  that,  i]i  a fortnight  or  so,  I had  fair  choice"^^x 

what  companions  I liked,  out  of  the  whole  college. 

Fortunately  for  me — beyond  all  words,  fortunately — Henry 
Acland,  by  about  a year  and  a half  my  senior,  chose  me  ; saw 
what  helpless  possibilities  were  in  me,  and  took  me  afiection- 
ately  in  hand.  His  rooms,  next  the  gate  on  the  north  side  of 
Canterbury,  were  within  fifty  yards  of  mine,  and  became  to 
me  the  only  place  where  I was  happy.  He  quietly  showed 
me  the  manner  of  life  of  English  youth  of  good  sense,  good 
family,  and  enlarged  education  ; we  both  of  us  already  lived 
in  elements  far  external  to  the  college  quadrangle.  He  told 
me  of  the  plains  of  Troy  ; a year  or  two  afterward  I showed 
him,  on  his  marriage  journey,  the  path  up  the  Montauvert ; 
and  the  friendship  between  us  has  never  changed,  but  by 
deepening,  to  this  daj% 

Of  other  friends,  I had  some  sensible  and  many  kind  ones  ; 
an  excellent  college  tutor ; and  later  on,  for  a private  one,  the  en- 
tirely right-minded  and  accomplished  scholar  already  named, 
Osborne  Gordon.  At  the  corner  of  the  great  quadrangle  lived 
Hr.  Buckland,  always  ready  to  help  me, — or,  a greater  favor 
still,  to  be  helped  by  me,  in  diagram  drawing  for  his  lectures. 

My  picture  of  the  granite  veins  in  Trewavas  Head,  with  a cut- 
ter weathering  the  point  in  a squall,  in  the  style  of  Copley 
Fielding,  still,  I believe,  forms  part  of  the  resources  of  the 
geological  department.  Mr.  Parker,  then  first  founding  the 
Architectural  Society,  and  Charles  Newton,  already  notable  in 
his  intense  and  curious  way  of  looking  into  things,  were  there 
to  symi^athize  with  me,  and  to  teach  me  more  accurately  the 
study  of  architecture.  Within  eight  miles  were  the  pictures 
of  Blenheim.  In  all  ways,  opportunities,  and  privileges,  it  was 
not  conceivable  that  a youth  of  my  age  could  have  been  placed 
more  favorably — if  only  he  had  had  the  wit  to  know  them, 


^RMTERITA. 

and  the  will  to  use  Alas!  there  I stood — or  tottered — 

T idiotic,  in  the  midst  of  them  : nothing 

that  I can  think  of  r , i x -x  xi 

, ^-among  men,  or  birds,  or  beasts,  quite  the 

image  o me,  exc^|.  g^epherdess  Agnes’s  picture  of 

, . just  a little  to  my  credit  that  I was  not  ashamed, 

bi^^pleased,  that  my  mother  came  to  Oxford  with  me  to  take 
sqPdi  care  of  me  as  she  could.  Through  all  three  years  of 
residence,  during  term  time,  she  had  lodging  in  the  High 
Street  (first  in  Mr.  Adams’s  pretty  house  of  sixteenth  century 
woodwork),  and  my  father  lived  alone  all  through  the  week  at 
Herne  Hill,  parting  with  wife  and  son  at  once  for  the  son’s 
sake.  On  the  Saturday,  he  came  down  to  us,  and  I went  with 
him  and  mother,  in  the  old  domestic  way,  to  St.  Peter’s,  for 
the  Sunday  morning  service  : otherwise,  they  never  appeared 
with  me  in  public,  lest  my  companions  should  laugh  at  me,  or 
anyone  else  ask  malicious  questions  concerning  vintner  papa 
and  his  old-fashioned  wife. 

None  of  the  men,  through  my  whole  college  career,  ever 
said  one  word  in  depreciation  of  either  of  them,  or  in  sarcasm 
at  my  habitually  spending  my  evenings  with  my  mother.  But 
once,  when  Adele’s  elder  sister  came  with  her  husband  to  see 
Oxford,  and  I mentioned,  somewhat  unnecessarily,  at  dinner, 
that  she  was  the  Countess  Diane  de  Maison,  they  had  no  mercy 
on  me  for  a month  afterward. 

The  reader  will  please  also  note  that  my  mother  did  not 
come  to  Oxford  because  she  could  not  part  with  me, — still 
less,  because  she  distrusted  me.  She  came  simply  that  she 
might  be  at  hand  in  case  of  accident  or  sudden  illness.  She 
had  always  been  my  physician  as  well  as  my  nurse  ; on  sev- 
eral occasions  her  timely  watchfulness  had  saved  me  from 
the  most  serious  danger  ; nor  was  her  caution  now,  as  will  be 
seen,  unjustified  by  the  event.  But  for  the  first  two  years  of 
my  college  life  I caused  her  no  anxiety  ; and  my  day  was 
always  happier  because  I could  tell  her  at  tea  whatever  had 
pleased  or  profited  me  in  it. 

The  routine  of  day  is  perhaps  worth  telling.  I never  missed 
chapel  ; and  in  winter  got  an  hour’s  reading  before  it.  Break- 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


169 


fast  at  nine, — lialf-an-hour  allowed  for  it  to  a second,  for  Cap- 
tain Marryat  with  my  roll  and  butter.  College  lectures  till 
one.  Lunch,  with  a little  talk  to  anybody  who  cared  to  come 
in,  or  share  their  own  commons  with  me.  At  two,  Buckland 
or  other  professor’s  lecture.  Walk  till  five,  hall  dinner,  wine 
either  given  or  accepted,  and  quiet  chat  over  it  Avith  the  read- 
ing men,  or  a frolic  with  those  of  my  own  table ; but  I always 
got  round  to  the  High  Street  to  my  mother’s  tea  at  seven,  and 
amused  myself  till  Tom"^  rang  in,  and  I got  with  a run  to  Can- 
terbury gate,  and  settled  to  a steady  bit  of  of  final  reading  till 
ten.  I can’t  make  out  more  than  six  hours’  real  work  in  the 
day,  but  that  was  constantly  and  unflinchingly  given. 

My  Herodotean  history,  at  any  rate,  got  well  settled  down 
into  me,  and  remains  a greatly  precious  possession  to  this  day. 
Also  my  college  tutor,  Mr.  Walter  Brown,  became  somewhat 
loved  by  me,  and  with  gentleness  encouraged  me  into  some 
small  acquaintance  with  Greek  verbs.  My  mathematics  pro- 
gressed well  under  another  tutor  whom  I liked,  Mr.  Hill ; the 
natural  instinct  in  me  for  pure  geometry  being  keen,  and 
my  grasp  of  it,  as  far  as  I had  gone,  thorough.  At  my  “ little 
go  ” in  the  spring  of  ’88,  the  diagrams  of  Euclid  being  given 
me,  as  was  customary  with  the  Euclid  examination  paper,  I 
handed  the  book  back  to  the  examiner,  saying  scornfully,  “ I 
don’t  want  any  figures,  sir.”  “You  had  better  take  them,” 
replied  he,  mildl}^  ; which  I did,  as  he  bid  me  ; but  I could 
then,  and  can  still,  dictate  blindfold  the  demonstration  of  any 
problem,  with  any  letters,  at  an}'  of  its  points,  I just  scraped 
through,  and  no  more,  Avith  my  Latin  writing,  came  credita- 
bly off  with  wl\at  else  had  to  be  done,  and  my  tutor  Avas  satis- 
fied with  me, — not  enough  recognizing  that  the  ‘‘  little  go  ” 
had  asked,  and  got  out  out  of  me,  pretty  nearly  all  I had  in 
me,  or  Avas  ever  likely  to  have  in  that  kind. 

It  Avas  extremely  unfortunate  for  me  that  the  two  higher 
lecturers  of  the  college,  Kynaston  (afterward  Master  of  Sk 


* I try  to  do  without  notes,  but  for  the  sake  of  any  not  English  reader 
must  explain  that  “ Tom  ” is  the  name  of  the  great  bell  of  Oxford,  in 
Christ  Church  western  tower. 


172 


PE^TEBITA. 


Originality — passing  slightly  into  grotesqueness,  and  a lit- 
tle diminishing  their  effective  power.  The  Doctor  had  too 
much  humor  ever  to  follow  far  enough  the  dull  side  of  a sub- 
ject, Frauk  was  too  fond  of  his  bear-cub  to  give  attention 
enough  to  the  training  of  the  cubbish  element  in  himself ; and 
a day  scarcely  passed  without  Mit’s  com-mit-ting  herself  in 
some  manner  disapproved  by  the  statelier  college  demoiselles. 
But  all  were  frank,  kind,  and  clever,  vital  in  the  highest  de- 
gree ; to  me,  medicinal  and  saving. 

Dr.  Buckland  was  extremely  like  Sydney  Smith  in  his  staple 
of  character  ; no  rival  with  him  in  wit,  but  like  him  in  humor, 
common  sense,  and  benevolently  cheerful  doctrine  of  Divin- 
ity. At  his  breakfast-table  I met  the  leading  scientific  men  of 
the  day,  from  Herschel  downward,  and  often  intelligent  and 
courteous  foreigners, — with  whom  my  stutter  of  French,  re- 
fined by  AdMe  into  some  precision  of  accent,  was  sometimes 
useful.  Everyone  was  at  ease  and  amused  at  that  breakfast- 
table, — the  menu  and  service  of  it  usually  in  themselves 
interesting.  I have  always  regretted  a day  of  unlucky  en- 
gagement on  which  I missed  a delicate  toast  of  mice ; and 
remembered,  with  delight,  being  waited  upon  one  hot  sum- 
mer morning  by  two  graceful  and  polite  little  Carolina  liz- 
ards, who  kept  off  the  flies. 

I have  above  noticed  the  farther  and  incalculable  good  it 
w^as  to  me  that  Acland  took  me  up  in  my  first  and  foolishest 
days,  and  with  pretty  irony  and  loving  insight, — or,  rather, 
sympathy  with  wdiat  was  best,  and  blindness  to  was  worst  in 
me, — gave  me  the  good  of  seeing  a noble  young  English  life 
in  its  purity,  sagacity,  honor,  reckless  daring,  and  happy 
piety ; its  English  pride  shining  prettily  through  all,  like  a 
giiTs  in  her  beauty.  It  is  extremely  interesting  to  me  to  con- 
trast the  Englishman’s  silently  conscious  pride  in  v;hat  he  is, 
with  the  vexed  restlessness  and  wretchedness  of  the  French- 
man, in  his  thirst  for  ‘‘gloire,”  to  be  gained  by  agonized 
effort  to  become  something  he  is  not. 

One  day  when  the  Cherwell  was  running  deep  over  one  of 
of  its  most  slippeiy  weirs,  question  arising  between  Acland 
and  me  whether  it  w^ere  traversable,  and  I declaring  it  too 


CHRIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


1 >7‘> 
1 i O 

positively  to  be  impassable,  Aclaiid  instantly  took  off  boot  and 
sock,  and  walked  over  and  back.  He  ran  no  risk  but  of  a 
sound  ducking,  being,  of  course,  a strong  swimmer  : and  I 
suppose  him  wise  enough  not  to  have  done  it  had  there  been 
real  danger.  But  he  would  certainly  have  run  the  margin 
fine,  and  possessed  in  its  quite  highest,  and  in  a certain  sense, 
most  laughable  degree,  the  constitutional  English  serenity  in 
danger,  which,  with  the  foolish  of  us,  degenerates  into  de- 
light in  it,  but  with  the  wise,  whether  soldier  or  physician,  is 
the  basis  of  the  most  fortunate  action  and  swiftest  decision 
of  deliberate  skill.  When,  thirty  years  afterward.  Dr.  Ac- 
land  was  wrecked  in  the  steamer  Tyne,  off  the  coast  of  Dor- 
set, the  steamer  having  lain  wedged  on  the  rocks  all  night, 
— no  one  knew  what  rocks, — and  the  dawn  breaking  on  half 
& mile  of  dangerous  surf  between  the  ship  and  shore, — the 
officers,  in  anxious  debate,  the  crew,  in  confusion,  the  pas- 
sengers, ill  hysterics  or  at  prayers,  were  all  astonished,  and 
many  scandalized,  at  the  appearance  of  Dr.  Acland  from 
the  saloon  in  punctilious  morning  dress,  with  the  announce- 
ment that  “ breakfast  was  ready.”  To  the  impatient  clamor 
of  indignation  with  which  his  unsympathetic  conduct  was 
greeted,  he  replied  by  pointing  out  that  not  a boat  could  go  on 
shore,  far  less  come  out  from  it,  in  that  stale  of  the  tide,  and 
that  in  the  meantime,  as  most  of  them  were  wet,  all  cold,  and 
at  the  best  must  be  dragged  ashore  through  the  surf,  if  not 
swim  for  their  lives  in  it,  they  would  be  extremely  prudent  to 
begin  the  day,  as  usual,  with  breakfast.  The  hysterics  ceased, 
the  confusion  calmed,  what  wits  anybody  had  became  avail- 
able to  them  again,  and  not  a life  was  ultimately  lost. 

In  all  this  playful  and  proud  heroism  of  his  youth,  Henry 
Acland  delighted  me  as  a leopard  or  a falcon  would,  without 
in  the  least  affecting  my  own  character  by  his  example.  I 
had  been  too  often  adjured  and  commanded  to  take  care  of 
myself,  ever  to  think  of  following  him  over  slippery  weirs,  or 
accompanying  him  in  pilot  boats  through  white-topped  shoal 
water  ; but  both  in  art  and  science  he  could  imW  me  on,  being 
years  ahead  of  me,  yet  glad  of  my  sympathy,  for,  till  I came, 
he  was  literally  alone  in  the  university  in  caring  for  either, 


m 


PR^TERITA. 


To  Dr.  Buckland,  geology  was  only  the  pleasant  occupation 
of  his  own  merry  life.  To  Henry  Acland  physiology  was  an 
entrusted  gospel  of  which  he  was  the  solitary  and  first  preacher 
to  the  heathen  ; and  already  in  his  undergraduate’s  room  in 
Canterbury  he  was  designing — a few  years  later  in  his  pro- 
fessional room  in  Tom  quad,  he  was  realizing, — the  introduc- 
tion of  physiological  study  which  has  made  the  university 
what  she  has  now  become. 

Indeed,  the  curious  point  in  Acland’s  character  was  its 
early  completeness.  Already  in  these  yet  boyish  days,  his 
judgment  was  unerring,  his  aims  determined,  his  powders 
developed  ; and  had  he  not,  as  time  went  on,  been  bound  to 
the  routine  of  professional  work,  and  satisfied  in  the  serenity, 
not  to  say  arrested  by  the  interests,  of  a beautiful  home  life, 
— it  is  no  use  thinking  or  saying  what  he  might  have  been  ; 
those  who  know  him  best  are  the  most  thankful  that  he  is 
what  he  is. 

Next  to  Acland,  but  with  a many-feet-thick  wall  betw^een, 
in  my  aesthetic  choice  of  idols,  which  required  primarily  of 
man  or  woman  that  they  should  be  comely,  before  I regarded 
any  of  their  farther  qualities,  came  Francis  Charteris.  I 
have  always  held  Charteris  the  most  ideal  Scotsman,  and  on 
the  whole  the  grandest  type  of  European  Circassian  race 
hitherto  visible  to  me  ; and  his  subtle,  effortless,  inevitable, 
unmalicious  sarcasm,  and  general!}^  sufficient  and  available 
sense,  gave  a constantly  natural,  and  therefore  inoffensive, 
hauteur  to  his  delicate  beauty.  He  could  do  what  he  h'ked 
with  anyone, — at  least  with  anyone  of  good  humor  and  sym- 
pathy ; and  when  one  day,  the  old  sub-dean  coming  out  of 
Canterbury  gate  at  the  instant  Charteris  was  dismounting  at 
it  in  forbidden  pink,  and  Charteris  turned  serenely  to  him,  as 
he  took  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  to  inform  him  that  “ he 
had  been  out  with  the  Dean’s  hounds,”  the  old  man  and  the 
boy  were  both  alike  pleased. 

Charteris  never  failed  in  anything,  but  never  troubled  him- 
self about  anything.  Naturally  of  high  ability  and  activity, 
he  did  all  he  chose  with  ease, — neither  had  falls  in  hunting, 
nor  toil  in  reading,  nor  ambition  nor  anxiety  in  examination, 


CHBIST  CHURCH  CHOIR. 


175 


— nor  disgrace  in  recklessness  of  life.  He  was  partly  checked, 
it  may  be  in  some  measure  weakened,  by  hectic  danger  in  his 
constitution,  possibly  the  real  cause  of  his  never  having  made 
his  mark  in  after  life. 

The  Earl  of  Desart,  next  to  Charteris,  interested  me  most  of 
the  men  at  ray  table.  A youth  of  the  same  bright  promise, 
and  of  kind  disposition,  he  had  less  natural  activity,  and  less 
— being  Irish, — common  sense,  than  the  Scot  ; and  the  Uni- 
versity made  no  attempt  to  give  him  more.  It  has  been  the 
pride  of  recent  days  to  equalize  the  position,  and  disguise 
the  distinction  of  noble  and  servitor.  Perhaps  it  might  have 
been  wiser,  instead  of  ethxcing  the  distinction,  to  reverse  the 
manner  of  it.  In  those  days  the  happy  servitor’s  tenure  of  his 
college-room  and  revenue  depended  on  his  industry,  while  it 
was  the  privilege  of  the  noble  to  support  with  lavish  gifts  the 
college,  from  which  he  expected  no  return,  and  to  buy  with 
sums  equivalent  to  liis  dignity  the  privileges  of  rejecting  alike 
its  instruction  and  its  control.  It  seems  to  me  singular,  and 
little  suggestive  of  sagacity  in  the  common  English  character, 
that  it  had  never  occurred  to  either  an  old  dean,  or  a young 
duke,  that  possibly  the  Church  of  England  and  the  House  of 
Peers  might  hold  a different  position  in  the  country  in  years 
to  come  if  the  entrance  examination  had  been  made  severer 
for  the  rich  than  the  poor  ; and  the  nobility  and  good  breed- 
ing of  a student  expected  to  be  blazoned  consistently  by  the 
shield  on  his  seal,  the  tassel  on  his  cap,  the  grace  of  his  con- 
duct, and  the  accuracy  of  his  learning. 

In  the  last  respect,  indeed,  Eton  and  Harrow  boys  are  for 
ever  distinguished, — whether  idle  or  industrious  in  after  life, 
— from  youth  of  general  England  ; but  how  much  of  the  best 
capacity  of  her  noblesse  is  lost  by  her  carelessness  of  their 
university  training,  she  may  soon  have  more  serious  cause  to 
calculate  than  I am  willing  to  foretell. 

I have  little  to  record  of  my  admired  Irish  fellow-student 
than  that  he  gave  the  supper  at  which  my  freshman’s  initia- 
tion into  the  body  of  gentlemen-comrnoners  was  to  be  duly 
and  formally  ratified.  Curious  glances  were  directed  to  me 
under  the  ordeal  of  the  necessary  toasts, — but  it  had  not 


1T6 


PR^TERITA. 


occurred  to  the  hospitality  of  my  entertainers  that  I probably 
knew  as  much  about  wine  as  they  did.  When  we  broke  u[) 
at  the  small  hours,  I helped  to  carry  the  son  of  the  head  of 
my  college  downstairs,  and  walked  across  Peckwater  to  my 
own  rooms,  deliberating,  as  I went,  whether  there  was  any 
immediately  practicable  trigonometric  method  of  determining 
whether  I was  walking  straight  toward  the  lamp  over  the  door. 

From  this  time — that  is  to  say,  from  about  the  third  week 
after  I came  into  residence — it  began  to  be  recognized  that, 
mull  or  milksop  though  I might  be,  I could  hold  my  own  on 
occasion ; and  in  next  term,  when  I had  to  return  civilities, 
that  I gave  good  wine,  and  that  of  curious  quality,  without 
any  bush  ; and  saw  with  good  humor  the  fruit  I had  sent  for 
from  London  thrown  out  of  the  window  to  the  porter’s  chil- 
dren ; farther,  that  I could  take  any  quantity  of  jests,  though 
I could  not  make  one,  and  could  be  extremely  interested  in 
hearing  conversation  on  topics  I knew  nothing  about, — to 
that  degree  that  Bob  Grimston  condescended  to  take  me  with 
him  one  day  to  a tavern  across  Magdalen  Bridge,  to  hear  him 
elucidate  from  the  landlord  some  points  of  the  horses  entered 
for  the  Derby,  an  object  only  to  be  properly  accomplished  by 
sitting  with  indifference  on  a corner  of  the  kitchen  table,  and 
carrying  on  the  dialogue  svitli  careful  pauses,  and  more  by 
winks  than  words. 

The  quieter  men  of  the  set  were  also  some  of  them  inter- 
ested in  my  drawiug  ; and  one  or  two — Scott  Murray,  for  in- 
staTice,  and  Lord  Kildare — were  as  punctual  as  I in  chapel, 
and  had  some  thoughts  concerning  college  life  and  its  issues, 
w'hich  they  w’ere  glad  to  share  with  me.  In  this  second  year 
of  residence,  my  position  in  college  was  thus  alike  pleasant, 
and  satisfactorily  to  my  parents,  eminent : and  I was  received 
without  demur  into  the  Christ  Church  society,  which  had  its 
quiet  club-room  at  the  corner  of  Oriel  Lane,  looking  across 
to  the  “ beautiful  gate  ” of  St.  Mary’s  ; and  on  whose  books 
were  entered  the  names  of  most  of  the  good  men  belonging 
to  the  upper  table  and  its  set,  who  had  passed  through  Christ 
Church  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years. 

Under  these  luxurious,  and — in  the  world’s  sight — honor- 


ROSLYN  CHAPEL. 


177 


f able,  conditions,  my  mind  gradually  recovering  its  tranquil- 
i lity  and  spring,  and  making  some  daily,  tliougb  infinitesimal, 
I progress  toward  the  attainment  of  common  sense,  I believe 
t tliat  I did  harder  and  better  work  in  my  college  reading  than 
k I can  at  all  remember.  It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I had  known 
Thucydides,  as  I knev/  Homer  (Pope’s  !),  since  I could  spell; 
])ut  the  fact  was,  that  for  a youth  wlio  had  so  little  Greek  to 
bless  himself  ^Yith  at  seventeen,  to  know  every  syllable  of  his 
Thucydides  at  half-past  eighteen  meant  some  steady  silting 
at  it.  The  perfect  honesty  of  the  Greek  soldier,  his  iiigh 
breeding,  his  political  insight,  and  the  scorn  of  construction 
with  which  he  knotted  his  meaning  into  a rhythmic  strength 
that  writhed  and  wrought  every  way  at  once,  all  interested 
me  intensely  in  him  as  a writer  ; while  his  subject,  the  central 
tragedy  of  all  the  world,  the  suicide  of  Greece,  was  felt  b}^ 
' me  with  a sympathy  in  which  the  best  powers  of  my  heart 
and  brain  were  brought  up  to  their  fullest,  for  my  years. 

I open,  and  lay  beside  me  as  I write,  the  perfectly  clean 
and  ^Yeli-preserved  third  volume  of  Arnold,  over  which  I spent 
so  much  toil,  and  burnt  with  such  sorrow  ; my  close-written 
abstracts  still  dovetailed  into  its  pages  ; and  read  with  sur- 
prised gratitude  the  editor’s  final  sentence  in  the  preface  dated 
“Fox  How,  Ambleside,  January,  1835.” 

“Not  the  wildest  extravagance  of  atheistic  wickedness  in 
modern  times  can  go  further  than  the  sophists  of  Greece 
went  before  them.  Whatever  audacity  can  dare,  and  subtlety 
contrive,  to  make  the  words  ‘ good  ’ and  ‘ evil  ’ change  their 
meaning,  has  been  already  tried  in  the  da^^s  of  Plato,  and  by 
his  eloquence,  and  wisdom,  and  faith  unshaken,  put  to  shame.” 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

ROSLYN  CHAPEL. 

I must  yet  return,  before  closing  the  broken  record  of 
these  first  twenty  years,  to  one  or  two  scattered  days  in  1836, 
when  things  happened  which  led  forward  into  phases  of  work 
to  be  given  account  of  in  next  volume. 

12 


178 


PB^TEBITA, 


I cannot  find  the  date  of  my  father’s  buying  his  first  Cop- 
ley Fielding, — “ Between  King’s  House  and  Inveroran,  Ar- 
gyllshire.” It  cost  a tremendous  sum,  for  us — forty-seven 
guineas  ; and  the  day  it  came  home  was  a festa,  and  many  a 
day  after,  in  looking  at  it,  and  fancying  the  hills  and  the  rain 
were  real. 

My  father  and  I were  in  absolute  sympathy  about  Copley 
Fielding,  and  I could  find  it  in  my  heart  now  to  wish  I had 
lived  at  the  Laud’s  End,  and  never  seen  any  art  but  Front’s 
and  his.  We  were  very  much  set  up  at  making  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  then  very  happy  in  it : the  modestest  of  presidents 
he  was  ; the  simplest  of  painters,  without  a vestige  of  ro- 
mance, but  the  purest  love  of  daily  sunshine  and  the  con- 
stant hills.  Fancy  him,  while  Stanfield  and  Harding  and 
Boberts  were  grand-touring  in  Italy,  and  Sicily,  and  Styria, 
and  Bohemia,  and  Illyria,  and  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and 
the  Sierra  Moreua, — Fielding  never  crossing  to  Calais,  but 
year  after  year  returning  to  Saddleback  and  Ben  Venue,  or, 
less  ambitious  yet,  to  Sandgate  and  the  Sussex  Downs. 

The  drawings  I made  in  1835  were  really  interesting  even 
to  artists,  and  appeared  promising  enough  to  my  father  to 
justify  him  in  promoting  me  from  Mr.  Runciman’s  tutelage  to 
the  higher  privileges  of  art-instruction.  Lessons  from  any  of 
the  members  of  the  Water-Color  Society  cost  a guinea,  and 
six  were  supposed  to  have  efficiency  for  the  production  of  an 
adequately  skilled  water-color  amateur.  There  was,  of  course, 
no  question  by  what  master  they  should  be  given  ; and  I 
know  not  whether  papa  or  I most  enjoyed  the  six  hours  in 
Newman  Street:  my  father’s  intense  delight  in  Fielding’s 
v/ork  making  it  a real  pleasure  to  the  painter  that  he  should 
stay  chatting  while  I had  my  lesson.  Nor  was  my  father’s 
talk  (if  he  could  be  got  to  talk)  unworthy  any  painter’s  atten- 
tion, though  he  never  put  out  his  strength  but  in  writing.  I 
chance  in  good  time  on  a letter  from  Northcote  in  1830, 
showing  how  much  value  the  old  painter  put  on  my  father’s 
judgment  of  a piece  of  literary  work  which  remains  classical 
to  this  day,  and  is  indeed  the  best  piece  of  existing  criticism 
founded  on  the  principles  of  Sir  Joshua’s  school : 


R08LTN  CHAPEL. 


179 


“Dear  Sir, — I received  }^our  most  kind  and  consoling  letter, 
yet  I was  very  sorry  to  find  you  had  been  so  ill,  but  hope  you 
have  now  recovered  your  health.  The  praise  you  are  so  good 
as  to  bestow  on  me  and  the  “Volume  of  Conversations”  gives 
me  more  pleasure  than  perhaps  you  apprehend,  as  the  book 
was  published  against  my  consent,  and,  in  its  first  appearance 
in  the  magazines,  totally  without  my  knowledge.  I have 
done  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  its  coining  before  the  public, 
because  there  are  several  hard  and  cruel  opinions  of  persons 
that  I would  not  have  them  see  in  a printed  book  ; besides 
that,  Hazlitt,  although  a man  of  real  abilities,  yet  had  a desire 
to  give  pain  to  others,  and  has  also  frequently  exaggerated 
that  which  I had  said  in  confidence  to  him.  However,  I 
thank  God  that  this  book,  which  made  me  tremble  at  its 
coming  before  the  world,  is  received  with  unexpected  fa- 

OB- 

vor  A to  my  part,  and  the  approbation  of  a mind  like  yours 
give  {sic — short  for  “ cannot  but  give  ”)  me  the  greatest  con- 
solation I can  receive,  and  sets  my  mind  more  at  ease. 

“Please  to  present  my  respectful  coraj^liments  to  Mrs. 
Buskin,  who  I hope  is  well,  and  kind  remembrances  to  your  son. 

“I  remain  always,  dear  Sir, 

“Your  most  obliged  friend  ^ 

“And  very  humble  servant, 

“James  Northcote. 


“Argyll  House,  October  13th,  1830. 

“To  John  J.  Buskin,  Esq.” 

And  thus  the  proposed  six  lessons  in  Newman  Street  ran 
on  into  perhaps  eight  or  nine,  during  which  Copley  Fielding- 
taught  me  to  wash  color  smoothly  in  successive  tints,  to  shade 
cobalt  through  pink  madder  into  yellow  ochre  for  skies,  to 
use  a broken  scraggy  touch  for  the  tops  of  mountains,  to 


* In  memory  of  the  quiet  old  man  who  thus  honored  us  with  his 
friendship,  and  in  most  true  sense  of  their  value,  I hope  to  reprint  the 
parts  of  the  Conversations  which  I think  he  would  have  wished  to  he 
preserved. 


180 


pumterita. 


represent  calm  lakes  by  broad  strips  of  shade  with  lines  of 
light  between  them  (usually  at  about  twice  the  distance  of  the 
lines  of  this  print),  to  produce  dark  clouds  and  rain  with  twelve 
or  twenty  successive  washes,  and  to  crumble  burnt  umber 
with  a dry  brush  for  foliage  and  foreground.  With  these 
instructions,  I succeeded  in  copying  a drawing  which  Fielding 
made  before  me,  some  twelve  inches  by  nine,  of  Ben  Venue 
and  the  Trosachs,  with  brown  cows  standing  in  Loch  Achray, 
so  much  to  my  own  satisfaction  that  I put  my  work  up  over 
my  bed  room  chimnej^-piece  the  last  thing  at  night,  and  woke 
to  its  contemplation  in  the  morning  wdth  a rapture,  mixed 
of  self-complacency  and  the  sense  of  new  faculty,  in  which 
I floated  all  that  day,  as  in  a newly-discovered  and  strongly 
buoyant  species  of  air. 

In  a very  little  while,  however,  I found  that  this  great  first 
step  did  not  mean  consistent  progress  at  the  same  pace.  I 
saw  that  my  washes,  however  careful  or  multitudinous,  did 
not  in  the  end  look  as  smooth  as  Fielding’s,  and  that  my 
Grumblings  of  burnt  umber  became  uninteresting  after  a 
certain  number  of  repetitions. 

With  still  greater  discouragement,  I perceived  the  Fielding 
processes  to  be  inapplicable  to  the  Alps.  My  scraggy  touches 
did  not  to  my  satisfaction  represent  aiguilles,  nor  my  ruled 
lines  of  shade,  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  The  water-color  drawing 
was  abandoned,  with  a dim  undercurrent  of  feeling  that  I had 
no  gift  for  it, — and  in  truth  I had  none  for  color  arrangement, 
— and  the  pencil  outline  returned  to  with  resolute  energy. 

I had  never,  up  to  this  time,  seen  a Turner  drawing,  and 
scarcely  know  whether  to  lay  to  the  score  of  dulness,  or 
prudence,  the  tranquillity  in  wdiich  I copied  the  engravings 
of  the  Rogers  vignettes,  without  so  much  as  once  asking 
wLere  the  originals  were.  The  facts  being  that  they  lay  at 
the  bottom  of  an  old  drawer  in  Queen  Anne  Street,  inaccessi- 
ble to  me  as  the  bottom  of  the  sea, — and  that,  if  I had  seen 
them,  they  would  only  have  destroyed  my  pleasure  in  the  en- 
gravings,— my  rest  in  these  was  at  least  fortunate  : and  the 
more  I consider  of  this  and  other  such  forms  of  failure  in 
what  most  people  would  call  laudable  curiosity,  the  more  I 


ROSLYN  CHAPEL. 


181 


am  disposed  to  regard  witli  thankfulness,  and  even  respect, 
the  habits  which  have  remained  with  me  during  life,  of  ah 
ways  working  resignedly  at  the  thing  under  my  hand  till  I 
could  do  it,  and  looking  exclusively  at  the  thing  before  my 
eyes  till  I could  see  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Academy  Turners  were  too  far  be- 
yond all  hope  of  imitation  to  disturb  me,  and  the  impressions 
they  produced  before  1836  were  confused  ; many  of  them, 
like  the  “ Quilleboeuf,”  or  the  “ Keelmen  heaving  in  Coals,” 
being  of  little  charm  in  color  ; and  the  “Fountain  of  Indo- 
lence,” or  “Golden  Bough,”  perhaps  seeming  to  me  already 
fantastic,  beside  the  naturalism  of  Landseer,  and  the  human 
interest  and  intelligible  finish  of  Wilkie. 

But  in  1836  Turner  exhibited  three  pictures,  in  which  the 
characteristics  of  his  later  manner  were  developed  with  his 
best  skill  and  enthusiasm;  “Juliet  and  her  Nurse,”  “ Kome 
from  Mount  Aventine,”  and  “Mercury  and  Argus.”  His 
freak  in  placing  Juliet  at  Venice  instead  of  Verona,  and  the 
mysteries  of  lamp-light  and  rockets  with  whicli  he  had  dis- 
guised Venice  herself,  gave  occasion  to  an  article  in  Black- 
wood's Magazine  of  sufficiently  telling  ribaldry,  expressing, 
with  some  force,  and  extreme  discourtesy,  the  feelings  of  the 
pupils  of  Sir  George  Beaumont  at  the  appearance  of  these 
unaccredited  views  of  Nature. 

The  review  raised  me  to  the  height  of  “black  anger”  in 
which  I have  remained  pretty  nearly  ever  since  ; and  having 
by  that  time  some  confidence  in  my  power  of  words,  and — not 
merely  judgment,  but  sincere  experience — of  the  charm  of 
Turner’s  work,  I wrote  an  answer  to  Hlackioood,  of  which  I 
wish  I could  now  find  any  fragment.  But  my  father  thought  it 
right  to  ask  Turner’s  leave  for  its  publication ; it  was  copied 
in  my  best  hand,  and  sent  to  Queen  Anne  Street,  and  the  old 
man  returned  kindly  answer,  as  follows  : 

“ 47,  Queen  Ann  (sic)  Street  West, 

“ October  6th,  1836. 

“ My  dear  Sir, —I  beg  to  thank  you  for  your  zeal,  kindness, 
and  the  trouble  you  have  taken  in  my  behalf,  in  regard  of  the 


182 


PBJSTEBITA, 


criticism  of  Blackwood's  Magazine  for  October,  respecting  my 
works ; but  I never  move  in  these  matters,  they  are  of  no 
import  save  mischief  and  the  meal  tub,  which  Maga  fears  for 
by  my  having  invaded  the  flour  tub. 

“P.S. — If  you  wish  to  have  tlie  manuscript  back,  have  the 
goodness  to  let  me  know.  If  not,  with  }^our  sanction,  I will 
send  it  on  to  the  possessor  of  the  picture  of  Juliet.” 

I cannot  give  the  signature  of  this  letter,  which  has  been 
cut  off  for  some  friend  ! In  later  years  it  used  to  be,  to  my 
father,  “Yours  most  truly,”  and  to  me,  “Yours truly.” 

The  “ possessor  of  the  picture  ” was  Mr.  Munro  of  Novar, 
who  never  spoke  to  me  of  the  first  chapter  of  “Modern 
Painters  ” thus  coming  into  his  hands.  Nor  did  I ever  care  to 
ask  him  about  it ; and  still,  for  a year  or  two  longer,  I j>erse- 
vered  in  the  study  of  Turner  engravings  only,  and  the  use  of 
Cople}^  Fielding’s  method  for  such  efforts  at  color  as  I made  on 
the  vacation  journeys  during  Oxford  days. 

We  made  three  tours  in  those  summers,  without  crossing 
Channel.  In  1837,  to  Yorkshire  and  the  Lakes  ; in  1838,  to 
Scotland  ; in  1839,  to  Cornwall. 

On  the  journej’^  of  1837,  when  I was  eighteen,  I felt,  for  the 
last  time,  the  pure  childish  love  of  nature  which  V/ordsworth 
so  idly  takes  for  an  intimation  of  immortality.  We  went 
down  by  the  North  Koad,  as  usual ; and  on  the  fourth  day 
arrived  at  Catterick  Bridge,  where  there  is  a clear  pebble- 
bedded  stream,  and  both  west  and  east  some  rising  of  hills, 
foretelling  the  moorlands  and  dells  of  upland  Yorkshire  ; and 
there  the  feeling  came  back  to  me— as  it  could  never  return 
more. 

It  is  a feeling  only  possible  to  youth,  for  all  care,  regret, 
or  knowledge  of  evil  destroys  it ; and  it  requires  also  the 
full  sensibility  of  nerve  and  blood,  the  conscious  strength  of 
heart,  and  hope  ; not  but  that  I suppose  the  purity  of  youth 
may  feel  what  is  best  of  it  even  through  sickness  and  the 
waiting  for  death ; but  only  in  thinking  death  itself  God’s 
sending. 

In  myself,  it  has  always  been  quite  exclusively  confined  to 


BOSLYN  CHAPEL. 


183 


wildy  that  is  to  say,  wholly  natural  places,  and  especially  to 
scenery  animated  by  streams,  or  by  the  sea.  The  sense  oi 
the  freedom,  spontaneous,  unpolluted  power  of  nature  ^vas 
essential  in  it.  I enjoyed  a lawn,  a garden,  a daisied  field,  a 
quiet  pond,  as  other  children  do  ; but  by  the  side  of  Wand  el, 
or  on  the  downs  of  Sanclgate,  or  by  a Yorkshire  stream  under 
a cliff,  I was  different  from  other  children,  that  ever  I have 
noticed  ; but  the  feeling  cannot  be  described  by  any  of  us 
that  have  it.  Wordsworth’s  “ haunted  me  like  a passion  ” is 
no  description  of  it,  for  it  is  not  like,  but  is,  a passion  ; the 
point  is  to  define  how  it  differs  from  other  passions, — what 
sort  of  human,  pre-eminently  human,  feeling  it  is  that  loves 
a stone  for  a stone’s  sake,  and  a cloud  for  a cloud’s.  A mon- 
key loves  a monkey  for  a monkey’s  sake,  and  a nut  for  the 
kernel’s,  but  not  a stone  for  a stone’s.  I took  stones  for 
bread,  but  not  certainly  at  the  Devil’s  bidding. 

I was  different,  be  it  once  more  said,  from  other  children 
even  of  my  own  type,  not  so  much  in  the  actual  nature  of  the 
feeling,  but  in  the  mixture  of  it.  I had,  in  my  little  clay 
pitcher,  vialfuls,  as  it  were,  of  Wordsworth’s  reverence, 
Shelley’s  sensitiveness,  Turner’s  accurac}^  all  in  one.  A 
snow'drop  was  to  me,  as  to  Wordsworth,  part  of  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount ; but  I never  should  have  written  sonnets  to 
the  celandine,  because  it  is  of  a coarse  yellow,  and  imperfect 
form.  With  Shelley,  I loved  blue  sky  and  blue  eyes,  but 
never  in  the  least  confused  the  heavens  with  my  own  poor 
little  Psychidion.  And  the  reverence  and  passion  were  alike 
kept  in  their  places  by  the  constructive  Turnerian  element ; 
and  I did  not  weary  myself  in  wishing  that  a daisy  could  see 
the  beauty  of  its  shadow,  but  in  trying  to  draw  the  shadow 
rightly,  myself. 

But  so  stubborn  and  chemically  inalterable  the  laws  of  the 
prescription  were,  that  now,  looking  back  from  1886  to  tliat 
brook  shore  of  1837,  whence  I could  see  the  whole  of  my 
youth,  I find  myself  in  nothing  whatsoever  changed.  Some 
of  me  is  dead,  more  of  me  stronger.  I have  learned  a few 
things,  forgotten  many ; in  the  total  of  me,  I am  but  the 
same  youth,  disappointed  and  rheumatic. 


184 


PRETERIT  A. 


And  in  illustration  of  this  stubbornness,  not  by  stiffening 
of  the  wood  with  age,  but  in  the  structure  of  the  pith,  let  me 
insist  a minute  or  two  more  on  the  curious  joy  I felt  in  1837 
in  returning  to  the  haunts  of  bo^daood.  No  boy  could  possi- 
bly have  been  more  excited  than  I was  by  seeing  Italy  and 
the  Alps  ; neither  boy  nor  man  ever  knew  better  the  differ- 
ence between  a Cumberland  cottage  and  Venetian  palace,  or 
a Cumberland  stream  and  the  Ehone : — my  very  knowledge 
of  this  difference  will  be  found  next  year  expressing  itself  in 
the  first  bit  of  promising  literary  work  I ever  did  ; but  after 
all  the  furious  excitement  and  wild  joy  of  the  Continent,  the 
coming  back  to  a Yorkshire  stream-side  felt  like  returning 
to  heaven.  We  went  on  into  Vv^ell-known  Cumberland ; my 
father  took  me  up  Scawfell  and  Helvellyn,  with  a clever  Kes- 
wick guide,  who  knew  mineralogy,  Mr.  Wright ; and  the 
summer  passed  beneficently  and  peacefully. 

A little  incident  which  happened,  I fancy  in  the  beginning 
of  ’38,  shows  that  I had  thus  recovered  some  tranquillity  and 
sense,  that  might  at  that  time  have  been  settled  down  to 
simple  and  healthy  life,  easily  enough,  had  my  parents  seen 
the  chance. 

I forgot  to  say,  when  speaking  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eichard 
Gray,  that,  when  I was  a child  my  mother  had  another  reli- 
gious friend,  who  lived  just  at  the  top  of  Camberwell  Grove, 
or  between  it  and  the  White  Gate, — Mrs.  Withers  ; an  ex- 
tremely amiable  and  charitable  person,  with  whom  my 
mother  organized,  I imagine,  such  schemes  of  almsgiving  as 
her  own  housekeeping  prevented  her  seeing  to  herself.  Mr. 
Withers  was  a coal-merchant,  ultimately  not  a successful  one. 
Of  him  I remember  only  a reddish  and  rather  vacant  face  ; 
of  Mrs.  Withers,  no  material  aspect,  only  the  above  vague  but 
certain  facts  ; and  that  she  was  a familiar  element  in  my 
mother’s  life,  dying  out  of  it  however  without  much  notice  or 
miss,  before  I was  old  enough  to  get  any  clear  notion  of  her. 

In  this  spring  of  ’38,  however,  the  widowed  Mr.  Withers, 
having  by  that  time  retired  to  the  rural  districts  in  reduced 
circumstances,  came  up  to  town  on  some  small  vestige  of  car- 
boniferous business,  bringing  his  only  daughter  with  him  to 


1W8LYN  GHAPEL. 


185 


show  my  mother  ; — who,  for  a wonder,  asked  her  to  stay 
with  us,  while  her  father  visited  his  urnquwhile  clientage 
at  the  coal  wharves.  Charlotte  Withers  was  a frugile,  fair, 
freckled,  sensitive  slip  of  a girl  about  sixteen  ; graceful  in  an 
unfinished  and  small  wild-flower  sort  of  a way,  extremely  in- 
telligent, affectionate,  wholly  right-minded,  and  mild  in  piety. 
An  altogether  sweet  and  delicate  creature  of  ordinary  sort, 
not  pretty,  but  quite  pleasant  to  see,  especially  if  her  e^^es 
were  looking  your  way,  and  her  mind  with  them. 

We  got  to  like  each  other  in  a mildly  confidential  way  in 
the  course  of  a week.  We  disputed  on  the  relative  dignities 
of  music  and  painting  ; and  I wrote  an  essay  nine  foolscap 
pages  long,  proposing  the  entire  establishment  of  m}^  own 
opinions,  and  the  total  discomfiture  and  overthrow  of  hers, 
according  to  my  usual  manner  of  paying  court  to  my  mis- 
tresses. Charlotte  Withers,  however,  thought  I did  her 
great  honor,  and  carried  away  the  essay  as  if  it  had  been  a 
school  prize. 

And,  as  I said,  if  my  father  and  mother  had  chosen  to  keep 
her  a month  longer,  we  should  have  fallen  quite  melodiously 
and  quietly  in  love ; and  they  might  have  given  me  an  excel- 
lently pleasant  little  wife,  and  set  me  up,  geology  and  all,  in 
the  coal  business,  without  any  resistance  or  farther  trouble 
on  my  part.  I don’t  suppose  the  idea  ever  occurred  to  them  ; 
Charlotte  was  not  the  kind  of  person  the}^  proposed  for  me. 
So  Charlotte  went  awny  at  the  week’s  end,  when  her  father 
was  ready  for  her.  I walked  with  her  to  Camberwell  Green, 
and  we  said  good-by,  rather  sorrowfull}^,  at  the  corner  of  the 
New  Koad  ; and  that  possibility  of  meek  happiness  vanished 
for  ever.  A little  while  afterward,  her  father  “ negotiated  ” a 
marriage  for  her  with  a well-to-do  Newcastle  trader,  whom 
she  took  because  she  was  bid.  He  treated  her  pretty  much 
as  one  of  his  coal  sacks,  and  in  a }"ear  or  two  she  died. 

Very  dimly,  and  rather  against  my  own  will,  the  incident 
showed  me  what  my  mother  had  once  or  twice  observed  to 
me,  to  my  immense  indignation,  that  Ad^le  was  not  the  only 
girl  in  the  world  ; and  my  enjoyment  of  our  tour  in  the 
Trosachs  was  not  described  in  any  more  Byronian  heroics  ; 


186 


mMTERITA, 


the  tragedy  also  having  been  given  up,  because,  when  I had 
described  a gondola,  a bravo,  the  heroine  Bianca,  and  moon- 
light on  the  Grand  Canal,  I found  I had  not  much  more  to 
say. 

Scott’s  country  took  me  at  last  well  out  of  it  all.  It  is  of 
little  use  to  the  reader  now  to  tell  him  that  still  at  that  date 
the  shore  of  Loch  Katrine,  at  the  east  extremity  of  the  lake, 
was  exactly  as  Scott  had  seen  it,  and  described, 

‘ ‘ Onward,  amid  the  copse  ’gan  peep, 

A narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep.” 

In  literal  and  lovely  truth,  that  was  so : — by  the  side  of  the 
footpath  (it  was  no  more)  which  wound  through  the  Trosachs, 
deep  and  calm  under  the  blaeberry  bushes,  a dark  winding, 
clear-brown  pool,  not  five  feet  wide  at  first,  reflected  the  en- 
tangled moss  of  its  margin,  and  arch  of  branches  above,  with 
scarcely  a gleam  of  sky. 

That  inlet  of  Loch  Katrine  was  in  itself  an  extremely  rare 
thing  ; I have  never  myself  seen  the  like  of  it  in  lake  shores. 
A winding  recess  of  deep  water,  without  any  entering  stream 
to  account  for  it — possible  only,  I imagine,  among  rocks  of 
the  quiet  abnormal  confusion  of  the  Trosachs  ; and  besides 
the  natural  sweetness  and  wonder  of  it,  made  sacred  by  the 
most  beautiful  poem  that  Scotland  ever  sang  by  her  stream 
sides.  And  all  that  the  nineteenth  century  conceived  of  wise 
and  right  to  do  with  this  piece  of  mountain  inheritance,  was 
to  thrust  the  nose  of  a steamer  into  it,  plank  its  blaeberries 
over  with  a platform,  and  drive  the  populace  headlong  past  it 
as  fast  as  they  can  scuffle. 

It  had  been  well  for  me  if  I had  climbed  Ben  Venue  and  Ben 
Ledi,  hammer  in  hand,  as  Scawfell  and  Helvellyn.  But  I had 
given  myself  some  literary  work  instead,  to  which  I Tvas  farther 
urged  by  the  sight  of  Roslyn  and  Melrose. 

The  idea  had  come  into  my  head  in  the  summer  of  ’37,  and, 
I imagine,  rose  immediately  out  of  my  sense  of  the  contrast 
between  the  cottages  of  Westmoreland  and  those  of  Itah*. 
Anyhow,  the  November  number  of  Loudon’s  Architectural 
Magazine  for  1837  opens  with  “ Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of 


R08LYN  CHAPEL, 


187 


Architecture ; or,  The  Architecture  of  the  Nations  of  Europe 
considered  in  its  Association  with  Natural  Scenery  and  Na- 
tional Character,”  by  Kataphusin.  I could  not  have  put  in 
fewer,  or  more  inclusive  words,  the  definition  of  what  half  my 
future  life  was  to  be  spent  in  discoursing  of  ; while  the  nom- 
de-piume  I chose  “According  to  Nature,”  was  equally  expres- 
sive of  the  temper  in  which  I was  to  discourse  alike  on  that  and 
every  other  subject.  The  adoption  of  a nom-de-plume  at  alh 
implied  (as  also  the  concealment  of  name  on  the  first  publica- 
tion of  “ Modern  Painters  ”)  a sense  of  a power  of  judgment 
in  myself,  which  it  would  not  have  been  becoming  in  a youth 
of  eighteen  to  claim.  Had  either  my  father  or  tutor  then  said 
to  me,  “Write  as  it  is  becoming  in  a youth  to  write, — let  the 
reader  discover  what  you  know,  and  be  persuaded  to  what  you 
judge,”  I perhaps  might  not  now  have  been  ashamed  of  my 
youth’s  essays.  Had  they  said  to  me  more  sternly,  “Hold 
your  tongue  till  you  need  not  ask  the  reader’s  condescension 
in  listening  to  you,”  I might  perhaps  have  been  satisfied  with 
my  work  when  it  was  mature. 

As  it  is,  these  youthful  essays,  though  deformed  by  as- 
sumption, and  shallow  in  contents,  are  curiously  right  up  to 
the  points  they  reach  ; and  already  distinguished  above  most 
of  the  literature  of  the  time,  for  the  skill  of  language  which 
the  public  at  once  felt  for  a pleasant  gift  in  me. 

I have  above  said  that  had  it  not  been  for  constant  reading 
of  the  Bible,  I might  probably  have  taken  Johnson  for  my 
model  of  English.  To  a useful  extent  I have  always  done 
so  ; in  these  first  essays,  partly  because  I could  not  help  it, 
partly  of  set,  and  well  set,  purpose. 

On  our  foreign  journeys,  it  being  of  course  desirable  to 
keep  the  luggage  as  light  as  possible,  my  father  had  judged 
that  four  little  volumes  of  Johnson — the  “ Idler  ” and  the 
“ Rambler  ” — did,  under  names  wholly  appropriate  to  the  cir- 
cumstances, contain  more  substantial  literary  nourishment 
than  could  be,  from  any  other  author,  packed  into  so  portable 
compass.  And  accordingly,  in  spare  hours,  and  on  wet  days, 
the  turns  and  returns  of  reiterated  “ Rambler  ” and  iterated 
“ Idler  ” fastened  themselves  in  my  ears  and  mind  ; nor  was  it 


188 


PR^TEBITA. 


possible  for  me,  till  long  afterward,  to  quit  myself  of  John* 
sonian  symmetry  and  balance  in  sentences  intended,  either 
with  swordman’s  or  pavior’s  blow,  to  cleave  an  enemy’s 
crest,  or  drive  down  the  oaken  pile  of  a principle.  I never 
for  an  instant  compared  Johnson  to  Scott,  Pope,  Byron,  or 
any  of  the  really  great  writers  whom  I loved.  But  I at  once 
and  forever  recognized  in  him  a man  entirely  sincere,  and  in- 
fallibly wise  in  the  view  and  estimate  he  gave  of  the  common 
questions,  business,  and  ways  of  the  world.  I valued  his 
sentences  not  primarily  because  they  were  symmetrical,  but 
because  they  were  just,  and  clear  ; it  is  a method  of  judg- 
ment rarely  used  by  the  average  public,  who  ask  from  an  au- 
thor always,  in  the  first  place,  arguments  in  favor  of  their  own 
opinions,  in  elegant  terms  ; and  are  just  as  ready  with  their 
applause  for  a sentence  of  Macaulay’s,  which  may  have  no 
more  sense  in  it  than  a blot  pinched  between  doubled  paper, 
as  to  reject  one  of  Johnson’s,  telling  against  their  own  pre- 
judice,— though  its  symmetry  be  as  of  thunder  answering 
from  tv/o  horizons. 

I hold  it  more  than  happy  that,  during  those  continen- 
tal journeys,  in  which  the  vivid  excitement  of  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  left  me  glad  to  give  spare  half-hours  to  the 
study  of  a thoughtful  book,  Johnson  was  the  one  author  ac- 
cessible to  me.  No  other  writer  could  have  secured  me,  as 
he  did,  against  all  chance  of  being  misled  by  my  own  san- 
guine and  metaphysical  temperament.  He  taught  me  care- 
fully to  measure  life,  and  distrust  fortune  ; and  he  secured 
me,  by  his  adamantine  common-sense,  for  ever,  from  being 
caught  in  the  cobwebs  of  German  metaphysics,  or  sloughed 
in  the  English  drainage  of  them. 

I open,  at  this  moment,  the  larger  of  the  volumes  of  the 
“ Idler  ” to  which  I owe  so  much.  After  turning  over  a few 
leaves,  I chance  on  the  closing  sentence  of  No.  65,  which 
transcribing,  I may  show  the  reader  in  sum  what  it  taught 
me, — in  words  which,  writing  this  account  of  myself,  I con- 
clusively obey. 

“ Of  these  learned  men,  let  those  who  aspire  to  the  same 
praise  imitate  the  diligence,  and  avoid  the  scrupulosity. 


ROSLYN  CHAPEL. 


189 


Let  it  be  always  remembered  that  life  is  short,  that  know- 
ledge is  endless,  and  that  many  doubts  deserve  not  to  be 
cleared.  Let  those  whom  nature  and  study  have  qualified  to 
teach  mankind,  tell  us  what  they  have  learned  while  they  are 
yet  able  to  tell  it,  and  trust  their  reputation  only  to  them- 
selves.” 

It  is  impossible  forme  now  to  know  how  far  my  own  honest 
desire  for  truth,  and  compassionate  sense  of  what  is  instantly 
helpful  to  creatures  who  are  every  instant  perishing,  might 
have  brought  me,  in  their  own  time,  to  think  and  judge  as 
Johnson  thought  and  measured, — even  had  I never  learned  of 
him.  He  at  least  set  me  in  the  straight  path  from  the  begin- 
ning, and,  whatever  time  I might  waste  in  vain  pleasure,  or 
weak  effort,  he  saved  me  for  ever  from  false  thoughts  and 
futile  speculations. 

Wh}',  I know  not,  for  Mr.  Loudon  was  certainly  not  tired  of 
me,  the  Katapbusiii  papers  close  abruptly,  as  if  their  busi- 
ness was  at  its  natural  end,  without  a word  of  allusion  in  any 
part  of  them,  or  apology  for  the  want  of  allusion,  to  the 
higher  forms  of  civil  and  religious  architecture.  I find,  in- 
deed, a casual  indication  of  some  ulterior  purpose  in  a pon- 
derous sentence  of  the  paper  on  the  Westmoreland  cottage, 
announcing  that  “ it  will  be  seen  hereafter,  when  we  leave 
the  lowly  valley  for  the  torn  ravine,  and  the  grassy  knoll  for 
the  ribbed  precipice,  that  if  the  continental  architects  can- 
not adorn  the  pasture  with  the  humble  roof,  they  can  crest 
the  crag  with  eternal  battlements.”  But  this  magnificent  ^n'O- 
mise  ends  in  nothing  more  tremendous  than  a “ chapter  on 
chimneys,”  illustrated,  as  I find  this  morning  to  my  extreme 
surprise,  by  a fairly  good  drawing  of  the  building  which  is 
now  the  principal  feature  in  the  view  from  my  study  win- 
dow,— Coniston  Hall. 

On  the  whole,  however,  these  papers,  written  at  intervals 
during  1838,  indicate  a fairly  progressive  and  rightly  consoli- 
dated range  of  thought  on  these  subjects,  within  the  chrysa- 
lid torpor  of  me. 

From  the  Trosachs  we  drove  to  Edinburgh:  and,  some- 
where on  the  road  near  Linlithgow,  my  father,  reading  some 


190 


PBJETERITA, 


letters  got  by  that  day’s  post,  coolly  announced  to  my  mother 
and  me  that  Mr.  Domecq  was  going  to  bring  his  four  daugh- 
ters to  England  again,  to  finish  their  schooling  at  New  Hall, 
near  Chelmsford. 

And  I am  unconscious  of  anything  more  in  that  journey, 
or  of  anything  after  it,  until  I found  myself  driving  down  to 
Chelmsford.  My  mother  had  no  business  of  course  to  take 
me  with  her  to  pay  a visit  in  a convent ; but  I suppose  felt  it 
would  be  too  cruel  to  leave  me  behind.  The  young  ladies 
were  allowed  a chat  with  us  in  the  parlor,  and  invited  (with 
acceptance)  to  spend  their  vacations  always  at  Herne  Hill. 
And  so  began  a second  era  of  that  part  of  my  life  which  is 
not  “ worthy  of  memory,”  but  only  of  the  “ Guarda  e Passa.” 

There  was  some  solace  during  my  autumnal  studies  in 
thinking  that  she  was  really  in  England,  really  over  there, — 
I could  see  the  sky  over  Chelmsford  from  my  study  win- 
dow,— ^and  that  she  was  shut  up  in  a convent  and  couldn’t  be 
seen  by  anybody,  or  spoken  to,  but  by  nuns  ; and  that  j)er- 
haps  she  wouldn’t  quite  like  it,  and  would  like  to  come  to 
Herne  Hill  again,  and  bear  with  me  a little. 

I wonder  mightily  now  what  sort  of  a creature  I should 
have  turned  out,  if  at  this  time  Love  had  been  with  me  in- 
stead of  against  me  ; and  instead  of  the  distracting  and  use- 
less pain,  I had  had  the  joy  of  approved  love,  and  the  unten- 
able, incalculable  motive  of  its  sympathy  and  praise. 

It  seems  to  me  such  things  are  not  allowed  in  this  world. 
The  men  capable  of  the  highest  imaginative  passion  are  al- 
ways tossed  on  fiery  waves  by  it : the  men  who  find  it  smooth 
water,  and  not  scalding,  are  of  another  sort.  My  father’s 
second  clerk,  Mr.  Ritchie,  wrote  unfeelingly  to  his  colleague, 
bachelor  Henry,  who  would  not  marry  for  his  mother’s  and 
sister’s  sakes,  “If  you  want  to  know  what  happiness  is,  get  a 
wife,  and  half  a dozen  children,  and  come  to  Margate.”  But 
Mr.  Ritchie  remained  all  his  life  nothing  more  than  a portly 
gentleman  with  gooseberry  eyes,  of  the  Irvingite  persuasion. 

There  must  be  great  happiness  in  the  love-matches  of  the 
typical  English  squire.  Yet  English  squires  make  their  hap- 
py lives  only  a portion  for  foxes. 


ROSLTN^  CHAPEL. 


191 


Of  course,  when  Adele  and  her  sisters  came  back  at  Christ- 
mas,  and  stayed  with  us  four  or  five  weeks,  every  feeling  and 
folly  that  had  been  subdued  or  forgotten,  returned  in  re- 
doubled force.  I don’t  know  what  would  have  happened  if 
Adele  had  been  a perfectly  beautiful  and  amiable  girl,  and 
had  herself  in  the  least  liked  me.  I suppose  then  my  mother 
would  have  been  overcome.  But  though  extremely  lovely  at 
fifteen,  Adele  was  not  prettier  than  French  girls  in  general  at 
eighteen  ; she  was  firm,  and  fiery,  and  high  principled  ; but, 
! as  the  light  traits  already  noticed  of  her  enough  show,  not 
ill  the  least  amiable  ; and  although  she  would  have  married 
[ me,  had  her  father  wished  it,  was  always  glad  to  have  me  out 
I of  her  way.  My  love  was  much  too  high  and  fantastic  to  be 
I diminished  by  her  loss  of  beauty  ; but  I perfectly'  well  saw 

I and  admitted  it,  having  never  at  any  time  been  in  the  slight- 

est degree  blinded  by  love,  as  I perceive  other  men  are,  out 
of  my  critic  nature.  And  day  followed  on  day,  and  month  to 
month,  of  complex  absurdity,  pain,  error,  wasted  affection, 
t and  rewardless  semi-virtue,  which  I am  content  to  sweep  out 
I ! of  the  way  of  what  better  things  I can  recollect  at  this  time, 
into  the  smallest  possible  size  of  dust  heap,  and  wish  the 
Dustman  Oblivion  good  clearance  of  them. 

With  this  one  general  note,  concerning  children’s  conduct 
to  their  parents,  that  a great  quantity  of  external  and  irk- 
1 some  obedience  may  be  shown  them,  which  virtually  is  no 
obedience,  because  it  is  not  cheerful  and  total.  The  wish  to 
disobey  is  already  disobedience  ; and  although  at  this  time  I 
was  really  doing  a great  many  things  I did  not  like,  to  please 
my  parents,  I have  not  now  07ie  self-approving  thought  or  con- 
solation in  having  done  so,  so  much  did  its  sullenness  and 
maimedness  pollute  the  meagre  sacrifice. 

But,  before  I quit,  for  this  time,  the  field  of  romance,  let 
me  write  the  epitaph  of  one  of  its  sweet  shadows,  which  some 
who  knew  the  shadow  may  be  glad  I should  write.  The 
ground  floor,  under  my  father’s  counting-house  at  Billiter 
Street,  I have  already  said  was  occupied  by  Messrs.  Warded 
i & Co.  The  head  of  this  firm  was  an  extremely  intelligent  and 
refined  elderly  gentleman,  darkish,  with  spiritedly  curling 


192 


PR^TERITA. 


and  projecting  dark  hair,  and  bright  eyes  ; good-natured  and 
amiable  in  a high  degree,  well  educated,  not  over  wise,  always 
well  pleased  with  himself,  happy  in  a sensible  wife,  and  a very 
beautiful,  and  entirely  gentle  and  good,  only  daughter.  Not 
over  wise,  I repeat,  but  an  excellent  man  of  business  ; older 
and,  I suppose,  already  considerably  richer,  than  my  father. 
He  had  a handsome  house  at  Hampstead,  and  spared  no  pains 
on  his  daughter’s  education. 

It  must  have  been  some  time  about  this  year  1839,  or  the 
previous  one,  that  my  father  having  been  deploring  to  Mr. 
Warden  the  discomfortable  state  of  mind  I had  got  into 
about  Adele,  Mr.  Warded  proposed  to  him  to  try  whether 
some  slight  diversion  of  my  thoughts  might  not  be  effected 
by  a visit  to  Hampstead.  M3"  father’s  fancy  was  still  set  on 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  ; but  Miss  Warded  was  everything 
that  a girl  should  be,  and  an  heiress, — of  perhaps  something 
more  than  my  own  fortune  was  likely  to  come  to.  And  the 
two  fathers  agreed  that  nothing  could  be  more  fit,  rational, 
and  desirable,  than  such  an  arrangement.  So  I was  sent  to 
pass  a summer  afternoon,  and  dine  at  Hampstead* 

It  would  have  been  an  extremely  delightful  afternoon  for 
an}’  3"outh  not  a simpleton.  Miss  Warded  had  often  enough 
heard  me  spoken  of  by  her  father  as  a well-conducted  youth, 
already  of  some  literary  reputation — author  of  the  “ Poetry  of 
Architecture” — winner  of  the  Newdigate, — ^first  class  man  in 
expectation.  She  herself  had  been  brought  up  in  a way 
closely  resembling  my  own,  in  severe  seclusion  by  devoted 
parents,  at  a suburban  villa  with  a pretty  garden,  to  skip,  and 
gather  flowers,  in.  The  chief  difference  was  that,  from  the 
first.  Miss  Warded  had  had  excellent  masters,  and  was  now 
an  extremely  accomplished,  intelligent,  and  faultless  maid  of 
seventeen ; fragile  and  delicate  to  a degree  enhancing  her 
beauty  with  some  solemnity  of  fear,  yet  in  perfect  health,  as 
far  as  a fast-growing  girl  could  be  ; a softly  moulded,  slender 
brunette,  with  her  father’s  dark  curling  hair  transfigured  into 
playful  grace  round  the  pretty,  modest,  not  unthoughtful, 
gray-eyed  face.  Of  the  afternoon  at  Hampstead,  I remember 
only  that  it  was  a fine  day,  and  that  we  walked  in  the  garden ; 


ROSLTN  CHAPEL. 


193 


mamma,  as  her  mere  duty  to  me  in  politeness  at  a first  visit, 
superintending, — it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  left  us  to 
get  on  how  we  could.  I very  heartily  and  reverently  admired 
tJie  pretty  creature,  and  would  fain  have  done,  or  said,  any- 
thing I could  to  please  her.  Literally  to  please  her,  for  that  is 
indeed,  my  hope  with  all  girls,  in  spite  of  what  I have  above 
related  of  my  mistaken  ways  of  recommending  myself.  My 
primary  thought  is  how  to  serve  them,  and  make  them  happy, 
and  if  they  could  use  me  for  a plank  bridge  over  a stream,  or 
set  me  up  for  a post  to  tie  a swing  to,  or  anything  of  the  sort 
not  requiring  me  to  talk,  I should  be  always  quite  happy  in 
such  promotion.  This  sincere  devotion  to  them,  with  intense 
delight  in  whatever  beauty  or  grace  they  chance  to  have,  and 
in  most  cases,  perceptive  sympathy,  heightened  by  faith  in 
their  right  feelings,  for  the  most  part  gives  me  considerable 
power  with  girls  ; but  all  this  prevents  me  from  ever  being  in 
the  least  at  ease  with  them, — and  I have  no  doubt  that  dur- 
ing the  whole  afternoon  at  Hampstead,  I gave  little  pleasure 
to  my  companion.  For  the  rest,  though  I extremely  admired 
Miss  Warded,  she  was  not  my  sort  of  beauty.  I like  oval 
faces,  crystalline  blonde,  wnth  straightish,  at  the  utmost 
wav}%  (or,  in  length,  wreathed)  hair,  and  the  form  elastic, 
and  foot  firm.  Miss  Wardell’s  dark  and  tender  grace  had  no 
power  over  me,  except  to  make  me  extremely  afraid  of  being 
tiresome  to  her.  On  the  whole,  I suppose  I came  oF  pretty 
w'ell,  for  she  afterw^ard  allowed  herself  to  be  brought  out  to 
Herne  Hill  to  see  the  pictures,  and  so  on  ; and  I recollect  her 
looking  a little  frightenedly  pleased  at  my  kneeling  down  to 
hold  a book  for  her,  or  some  such  matter. 

After  this  second  interview,  however,  my  father  and  mother 
asking  me  seriously  wdiat  I thought  of  her,  and  I explaining 
to  them  that  though  I saw  all  her  beauty,  and  merit,  and 
niceness,  she  yet  was  not  my  sort  of  girl, — the  negotiations 
went  no  farther  at  that  time,  and  a little  while  after,  were 
ended  for  all  time  ; for  at  Hamj^stead  they  went  on  teaching 
the  tender  creature  High  German,  and  French  of  Paris,  and 
Kant’s  “Metaphysics,”  and  Newton’s  “Principia  ; ” and  then 
they  took  her  to  Paris,  and  tired  her  out  with  seeing  everything 
13 


194 


PMjETEPJTA. 


every  day,  all  day  long,  besides  tbe  dazzle  and  excitement  of 
such  a first  outing  from  Hampstead  ; and  she  at  last  getting 
too  pale  and  weak,  they  brought  her  back  to  some  English 
seaside  place,  I forget  where  : and  there  she  fell  into  nervous 
fever  and  faded  away,  with  the  light  of  death  flickering 
clearer  and  clearer  in  her  soft  eyes,  and  never  skipped  in 
Hampstead  garden  more. 

How  the  parents,  especially  the  father,  lived  on,  I never 
could  understand  ; but  I suppose  they  were  honestly  religious 
without  talking  of  it,  and  they  had  nothing  to  blame  them- 
selves in,  except  not  having  known  better.  The  father, 
though  with  grave  lines  altering  his  face  for  ever,  went  stead- 
ily on  with  his  business,  and  lived  to  be  old. 

I cannot  be  sure  of  the  date  of  either  Miss  Withers’  or  Miss 
Warden’s  death  ; that  of  Sybilla  Dowie  (told  in  “ Fors  ”), 
more  sad  than  either,  was  much  later  ; but  the  loss  of  her 
sweet  spirit,  following  her  lover’s,  had  been  felt  by  us  before 
the  time  of  which  I am  now  writing.  I had  never  myself  seen 
Death,  nor  had  any  part  in  the  grief  or  anxiety  of  a sick 
chamber  ; nor  had  I ever  seen,  far  less  conceived,  the  misery 
of  unaided  poverty.  But  I had  been  made  to  think  of  it ; and 
in  the  deaths  of  the  creatures  whom  I had  seen  joyful,  the 
sense  of  deep  pity,  not  sorrow  for  myself,  but  for  them,  began 
to  mingle  with  all  the  thoughts,  which,  founded  on  the  Ho- 
meric, ^schylean,  and  Shakesperian  tragedy,  had  now  be- 
gun to  modify  the  untried  faith  of  childhood.  The  blue 
of  the  mountains  became  deep  to  me  with  the  purple  of 
mourning, — the  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun,  not 
subdued,  but  raised  in  awe  as  the  harmonies  of  a Miserere, — 
and  all  the  strength  and  framework  of  my  mind,  lurid,  like 
the  vaults  of  Koslyn,  w^hen  weird  fire  gleamed  on  its  pillars, 
foliage-bound,  and  far  in  the  depth  of  twilight,  “ blazed  every 
rose-carved  buttress  fair.” 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


PR^TERITA 


VOLUME  II. 


■f 


» 


I 


PR^TERITA. 


VOLUME  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  AGE. 

This  second  volume  must,  I fear,  be  less  pleasing  to  the 
general  reader,  with  whom  the  first  has  found  more  favor 
than  I had  hoped, — not  because  I tire  of  talking,  but  that 
the  talk  must  be  less  of  other  persons,  and  more  of  myself. 
For  as  I look  deeper  into  the  mirror,  I find  myself  a more 
curious  person  than  I had  thought.  1 used  to  fancy  that 
everybody  would  like  clouds  and  rocks  as  well  as  I did,  if 
once  told  to  look  at  them  ; whereas,  after  fifty  years  of  trial, 
I find  that  is  not  so,  even  in  modern  days  ; having  long  ago 
known  that,  in  ancient  ones,  the  clouds  and  mountains,  which 
liave  been  life  to  me,  were  mere  inconvenience  and  horror  to 
most  of  mankind. 

I related,  in  the  first  volume,  page  80,  some  small  part  of 
my  pleasures  under  St.  Vincent’s  rock  at  Clifton,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  quartz-study  there  with  the  now  No.  51  of  the 
Brantwood  series.  Compare  with  these  childish  sentiments, 
those  of  the  maturely  judging  John  Evelyn,  at  the  same  place, 
30th  June,  1654 

“ The  city  ” (Bristol)  “wholly  mercantile,  as  standing  neere 
the  famous  Severne,  commodiously  for  Ireland  and  the  West- 
ern world.  Here  I first  saw  the  manner  of  refining  suggar, 
and  casting  it  into  loaves,  where  we  had  a collation  of  eggs 


198 


PBuETERITA. 


fried  in  the  suggar  furnace,*  together  with  excellent  Spanish 
wine  : but  what  appeared  most  stupendious  to  me,  was  the 
rock  of  St.  Vincent,  a little  distance  from  y®  towne,  the  preci- 
pice whereoff  is  equal  to  anything  of  that  nature  I have  seen 
in  y®  most  confragose  cataracts  of  the  Alpes,  the  river  gliding 
between  them  at  an  extraordinary  depth.  Here  we  went 
searching  for  diamonds,  and  to  the  Hot  Wells  at  its  foote. 
There  is  also  on  the  side  of  this  horrid  Alp  a very  romantic 
seate  : and  so  w^e  returned  to  Bathe  in  the  evening.” 

Of  course  Evelyn  uses  the  Avord  “ horrid  ” only  in  its  Latin 
sense  ; but  his  mind  is  evidently  relieved  by  returning  to 
Bath ; and  although,  farther  on,  he  describes  without  alarm 
the  towne  and  county  of  Nottingham  as  “seeming  to  be  but 
one  entire  rock,  as  it  were,”  he  explains  his  toleration  of  that 
structure  in  the  close  of  his  sentence — “ an  exceeding  pleas- 
ant shire,  full  of  gentry.”  Of  his  impressions  of  the  “ stu- 
pendious rocks  of  Fontainebleau,  and  ungentle  people  of  the 
Simplon,”  I have  to  speak  in  another  place. 

In  these  and  many  other  such  particulars  I find  the  typical 
English  mind,  both  then  and  now,  so  adverse  to  my  own,  as 
also  to  those  of  my  few  companions  through  the  sorrows  of 
this  world,  that  it  becomes  for  me  a matter  of  acute  Darwin- 
ian interest  to  trace  my  species  from  origin  to  extinction  : 
and  I have,  therefore,  to  warn  the  reader,  and  ask  his  pardon, 
that  while  a modest  person  writes  his  autobiography  chiefly  by 
giving  accounts  of  the  people  he  has  met,  I find  it  only  possi- 
ble, within  my  planned  limits,  to  take  note  of  those  who  have 
had  distinct  power  in  the  training  or  the  pruning  of  little  me 
to  any  good. 

I return  first  to  my  true  master  in  mathematics,  poor  Mr. 
Rowbotham.  Of  course  he  missed  his  Herne  Hill  evenings 
sadly  when  I went  to  Oxford.  But  always,  when  we  came 
home,  it  was  understood  that  once  in  the  fortnight,  or  so,  as 
he  felt  himself  able,  he  should  still  toil  up  the  hill  to  tea.  We 


♦Note  (by  Evelyn’s  editor  in  1827):  “A  kind  of  entertainment  like 
that  we  now  have  of  eating  beefsteaks  drest  on  the  stoker's  shovel,  and 
drinking  porter  at  the  famous  brewhouses  in  London.” 


OF  AGE. 


199 


were  always  sorry  to  see  him  at  the  gate  ; but  felt  that  it  was 
our  clear  small  duty  to  put  up  with  his  sighing  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  such  rest  as  his  woful  life  could  find.  Nor  were  Ave 
without  some  real  affection  for  him.  His  face  had  a certain 
grandeur,  from  its  constancy  of  patience,  bewildered  inno- 
cence, and  firm  lines  of  faculty  in  geometric  sort.  Also  he 
brought  us  news  from  the  mathematical  and  grammatical 
world,  and  told  us  some  interesting  details  of  manufacture,  if 
he  had  been  on  a visit  to  his  friend  Mr.  Crawsha3%  His  own 
home  became  yearly  more  wTetched,  till  one  day  its  little 
ten-years-old  Peepy  choked  himself  with  his  teetotum.  The 
father  told  us,  Avith  real  sorrow,  the  stages  of  the  child’s  pro- 
tracted suffering  before  he  died  ; but  observed,  finally,  that 
it  Avas  better  he  should  have  been  taken  aAvay, — both  for  him 
and  his  2)arents.  Evidently  the  poor  mathematical  mind  was 
relie A'ed  from  one  of  its  least  soluble  burdens,  and  the  sad 
face,  that  evening,  had  an  expression  of  more  than  usual 
repose. 

I never  forgot  the  lesson  it  taught  me  of  Avhat  human  life 
meant  in  the  suburbs  of  London. 

The  rigidly  moral  muse  of  Mr.  Pringle  had  by  this  time 
gone  to  Africa,  or,  let  us  hope,  Arabia  Felix,  in  the  other 
Avoiid  ; and  the  reins  of  my  poetical  genius  had  been  given 
into  the  hand  of  kindly  Mr.  W.  H.  Harrison  in  the  Vauxhall 
Road,  of  Avhom  account  has  already  been  given  in  the  first 
chapter  of  “ On  the  Old  Road  ” enough  to  carry  us  on  for  the 
present. 

I must  next  bring  up  to  time  the  history  of  my  father’s  af- 
fectionate physician,  Dr.  Grant.  Increasing  steadily  in  repu- 
tation, he  married  a Avidowed  lady,  Mrs.  Sidney,  of  good  po- 
sition in  Richmond  ; and  became  the  guardian  of  her  two 
extremely  nice  and  cleA^er  daughters,  Augusta  and  Emma,  who 
both  felt  great  respect,  and  soon  great  regard,  for  their  step- 
father, and  Avere  every  day  more  dutiful  and  pleasing  children 
to  him.  Estimating  my  mother’s  character  also  as  they 
ought,  later  on,  they  were  familiar  visitors  to  us  ; the  younger, 
Emma,  having  good  taste  for  drawing,  and  other  quiet  ac- 
complishments and  pursuits.  At  the  time  I am  now  look- 


200 


PE^TEBITA. 


ing  back  to,  however,  the  Star  and  Garter  breakfasts  had 
become  rarer,  and  were  connected  mostly  with  visits  to 
Hampton  Court,  where  the  great  vine,  and  the  maze,  were  of 
thrilling  attraction  to  me ; and  the  Cartoons  began  to  take 
the  aspect  of  mild  nightmare  and  nuisance  which  they  have 
ever  since  retained. 

M}''  runs  with  cousin  Mary  in  the  maze,  (once,  as  in  Hau- 
tesque  alleys  of  lucent  verdure  in  the  Moon,  with  Adele  and 
Elise),  always  had  something  of  an  enchanted  and  Faery- 
Qiieen  glamor  in  them : and  I went  on  designing  more  and 
more  complicated  mazes  in  the  blank  leaves  of  my  lesson 
books — ^'wasting,  I suppose,  nearly  as  much  time  that  way  as 
in  the  trisection  of  the  angle.  Howbeit,  afterward,  the  coins 
of  Cnossus,  and  characters  of  Daedalus,  Theseus,  and  the 
Minotaur,  became  intelligible  to  me  as  to  few  : and  I have 
much  unprinted  MSS.  about  them,  intended  for  expansion  in 
Ariadne  Florentina,”  and  other  labyrinthine  volumes,  but 
which  the  world  must  get  on  now  without  the  benefit  of,  as 
it  can. 

Meantime,  from  the  Grove,  wdiite-haired  mamma  Monro, 
and  silvery-fringed  Petite,  had  gone  to  their  rest.  Mrs.  Gray 
cared  no  longer  for  the  pride  of  her  house,  or  shade  of  her 
avenue ; while  more  and  more,  Mr.  Gray’s  devotion  to  “ Don 
Quixote,”  and  to  my  poetry  in  “ Friendships  Offering  ” inter- 
fered with  his  business  habits.  At  last  it  was  thought  that, 
being  true  Scots  both  of  them,  they  might  better  prosper 
over  the  Border.  They  went  to  Glasgow,  where  Mr,  Gray 
took  up  some  soid  of  a wine  business,  and  read  “ Rob  Roy  ” in- 
stead of  “Don  Quixote.”  We  went  to  Glasgow  to  see  them,  on 
our  Scottish  tour,  and  sorrowfully  perceived  them  to  be  going 
downward,  even  in  their  Scottish  world.  For  a little  change, 
they  were  asked  to  Oxford  that  autumn,  to  see  their  spoiled 
Johnnie  carrying  all  before  him  ; and  the  good  couple  being 
seated  in  Christ  Church  Cathedral  under  the  organ,  and  see- 
ing me  walk  in  with  my  companions  in  our  silken  sleeves, 
and  with  accompanying  flourishes  by  Mr.  Marshall  on  the 
trumpet  stop,  and  Rembrandtesque  effects  of  candlelight 
upon  the  Norman  columns,  were  both  of  them  melted  into 


OF  AGE.  201 

tears  ; and  remained  speechless  with  reverent  delight  all  the 
evening  afterward. 

I have  left  too  long  without  word  the  continual  benevo- 
lence toward  us  of  the  family  at  Widmore,  Mr.  Telford 
and  his  three  sisters ; the  latter  absolutely  well-educated 
women — wise,  without  either  severity  or  ostentation,  using 
all  they  knew  for  the  good  of  their  neighbors,  and  exhibiting 
in  their  own  lives  every  joy  of  sisterly  love  and  active  home- 
liness. Mr.  Henry  Telford’s  perfectly  quiet,  slightly  melan- 
choly, exquisitely  sensitive  face,  browned  by  continual  riding 
from  Bromley  to  Billiter  Street,  remains  with  me,  among  the 
most  precious  of  the  pictures  which,  unseen  of  any  guest, 
hang  on  the  walls  of  my  refectory. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kobert  Cockburn,  as  the  years  drew  on,  be- 
came more  and  more  kindly,  but  less  and  less  approvingly, 
interested  in  our  monastic  ways  at  Herne  Hill ; and  in  my 
partly  thwarted  and  uncomfortable,  partly  singular,  develop- 
ment of  literary  character.  Mrs.  Cockburn  took  earnest  pains 
with  my  mother  to  get  her  to  send  me  more  into  society,  that 
I might  be  licked  a little  into  shape.  But  my  mother  was 
satisfied  with  me  as  I was : and  besides,  Mrs.  Cockburn  and 
she  never  got  quite  well  on  together.  My  mother,  according 
to  her  established  maimer,  would  no  more  dine  with  her  than 
with  an^mne  else,  and  was  even  careless  in  returning  calls  ; 
and  Mrs.  Cockburn — which  was  wonderful  in  a woman  of  so 
much  sense — instead  of  being  merely  sorry  for  my  mother’s 
shyness,  and  trying  to  efface  her  sense  of  inferiority  in  edu- 
cation and  position,  took  this  somewhat  in  pique.  But  among 
the  fateful  chances  of  my  own  life  in  her  endeavors  to  do 
something  for  me,  and  somehow  break  the  shell  of  me,  she 
one  day  asked  me  to  dine  with  Lockhart,  and  see  his  little 
harebell-like  daintiness  of  a daughter.  I suppose  Mrs.  Cock- 
burn must  have  told  him  of  my  love  of  Scott,  yet  I do  not 
remember  manifesting  that  sentiment  in  any  wise  during 
dinner  : I recollect  only,  over  the  wine,  making  some  small 
effort  to  display  my  Oxonian  orthodoxy  and  sound  learning, 
with  respect  to  the  principles  of  Church  Establishment , and 
being  surprised,  and  somewhat  discomfited,  by  finding  that 


202 


PB^TEBITA. 


Mr.  Lockhart  knew  the  Greek  for  “ bishop  ” and  “ elder”  as 
well  as  I did.  On  going  into  the  drawing-room,  however,  I 
made  every  effort  to  ingratiate  myself  with  the  little  dark- 
eyed, high-foreheaded  Charlotte,  and  was  very  sorry, — but  I 
don’t  think  the  cbild  was, — when  she  was  sent  to  bed. 

But  the  most  happy  turn  of  Fortune’s  wheel  for  me,  in  this 
year  ’39,  was  the  coming  of  Osborne  Gordon  to  Herne  Hill 
to  be  my  private  tutor,  and  read  with  me  in  our  little  nursery. 
Taking  up  the  ravelled  ends  of  yet  workable  and  spinnable 
flax  in  me,  he  began  to  twist  them,  at  first  through  much 
wholesome  pain,  into  such  tenor  as  they  were  really  caj^able 
of. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  stop  all  pressure  in  reading. 
His  inaugural  sentence  was,  “ When  you  have  got  too  much 
to  do,  don’t  do  it,” — a golden  saying  which  I have  often  re- 
peated since,  but  not  enough  obeyed. 

To  Gordon  himself,  his  own  proverb  was  less  serviceable. 
He  was  a man  of  quite  exceptional  power,  and  there  is  no 
saying  what  he  might  have  done,  with  any  strong  motive. 
Very  early,  a keen,  though  entirely  benevolent,  sense  of  the 
absurdity  of  the  world  took  away  his  heart  in  'working  for  it : 
— perhaps  I should  rather  have  said,  the  density  and  unmal- 
leability of  the  world,  than  absurdity.  He  thought  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  with  it,  and  that  after  all  it  would  get  on 
by  itself.  Chiefly,  that  autumn,  in  our  walks  over  the  Nor- 
wood hills,  he,  being  then  an  ordained,  or  on  the  point  of 
being  ordained,  priest,  surprised  me  greatly  by  avoiding, 
evidently  with  the  sense  of  its  being  useless  bother,  my 
favorite  topic  of  conversation,  namely,  the  torpor  of  the 
Protestant  churches,  and  their  duty,  as  it  to  me  appeared, 
before  any  thought  of  missionary  work,  out  of  Europe,  or 
comfortable  settling  to  pastoral  work  at  home,  to  trample 
finally  out  the  smouldering  “diabolic  fire”  of  the  Papacy, 
in  all  Papal-Catholic  lands.  For  I was  then  by  training, 
thinking,  and  the  teaching  of  such  small  experience  as  I had, 
as  zealous,  pugnacious,  and  self-sure  a Protestant  as  you 
please.  The  first  condition  of  my  being  so  was,  of  course, 
total  ignorance  of  Christian  history ; the  second, — one  for 


OF  AGE. 


203 


which  the  Roman  Church  is  indeed  guiltily  responsible,— that 
all  the  Catholic  Cantons  of  Switzerland,  counting  Savo}^  also 
as  a main  point  of  Alpine  territory,  are  idle  and  dirt}^,  and  all 
Protestant  ones  bus}’’  and  clean — a most  impressive  fact  to  my 
evangelical  mother,  whose  first  duty  and  first  luxury  of  life 
consisted  in  purity  of  person  and  surroundings ; wliile  she 
and  my  father  alike  looked  on  idleness  as  indisputal)ly 
Satanic.  They  failed  not,  therefore,  to  look  carefully  on  the 
map  for  the  bridge,  or  gate,  or  vale,  or  ridge,  which  marked 
the  separation  of  Protestant  from  the  benighted  Catholic 
cantons  ; and  it  was  rare  if  the  first  or  second  field  and  cot- 
tage, beyond  the  border,  did  not  too  clearly  justify  their 
exulting,  — though  also  indignant  and  partly  sorrowful, — 
enforcement  upon  me  of  the  natural  consequences  of  Pop- 
ery. 

The  third  reason  for  my  strength  of  feeling  at  this  time  was 
a curious  one.  In  proportion  to  the  delight  I felt  in  the 
ceremonial  of  foreign  churches,  was  my  conviction  of  the 
falseness  of  religious  sentiment  founded  on  these  enjoyments. 
I had  no  foolish  scorn  of  them,  as  the  proper  expressions  of 
the  Catholic  Faith  ; but  infinite  scorn  of  the  lascivious  sensi- 
bility which  could  change  its  beliefs  because  it  delighted  in 
these,  and  be  “piped  into  a new  creed  by  the  whine  of  an 
organ  pipe.”  So  that  alike  my  reason,  and  romantic  pleasure, 
on  the  Continent,  combined  to  make  a better  Protestant  of 
me ; — yet  not  a malicious  nor  ungenerous  one.  I never 
suspected  Catholic  priests  of  dishonesty,  nor  doubted  the 
purity  of  the  former  Catholic  Church.  I was  a Protestant 
Cavalier,  not  Protestant  Roundhead, — entirely  desirous  of 
keeping  all  that  was  noble  and  traditional  in  religious  ritual, 
and  reverent  to  the  existing  piety  of  the  Catholic  peasantry. 
So  that  tiie  “diabolic  fire  ” which  I wanted  trampled  out,  was 
only  the  corrupt  Catholicism  which  rendered  the  vice  of 
Paris  and  the  dirt  of  Savoy  possible  ; and  which  I was  quite 
riglit  in  thinking  it  the  duty  of  every  Christian  priest  to 
attack,  and  end  the  schism  and  scandal  of  it. 

Osborne,  on  the  contrary,  w^as  a practical  Englishman,  of 
the  shrewdest,  yet  gentlest  type  ; keenly  perceptive  of  folly, 


204 


PR^^TEBITA, 


but  disposed  to  pardon  most  human  failings  as  little  more. 
His  ambition  was  restricted  to  the  walls  of  Christ  Church  ; he 
was  already  the  chiefly  trusted  aid  of  the  old  Dean  ; probably, 
next  to  him,  the  best  Greek  scholar  in  Oxford,  and  perfectly 
practised  in  all  the  college  routine  of  business.  He  thought 
that  the  Church  of  England  had — even  in  Oxford — enough  to 
do  in  looking  after  her  own  faults  ; and  addressed  himself, 
ill  our  conversations  on  Forest  Hill,  mainly  to  mollify  my 
Protestant  animosities,  enlarge  my  small  acquaintance  with 
ecclesiastical  history,  and  recall  my  attention  to  the  immediate 
business  in  hand,  of  enjoying  our  walk,  and  recollecting  what 
we  had  read  in  the  morning. 

In  his  proper  work  with  me,  no  tutor  could  have  been  more 
diligent  or  patient.  His  own  scholarly  power  was  of  the 
highest  order;  his  memory  (the  necessary  instrument  of 
great  scholarship)  errorless  and  effortless;  his  judgment  and 
feeling  in  literature  sound  ; his  interpretation  of  political 
events  always  rational,  and  founded  on  wide  detail  of  well- 
balanced  knowledge  ; and  all  this  without  in  the  least  priding 
himself  on  his  classic  power,  or  wishing  to  check  any  of  my 
impulses  in  other  directions.  He  had  taken  his  double  first 
with  the  half  of  his  strength,  and  wmuld  have  taken  a triple 
one  without  priding  himself  on  it : he  was  amused  by  my 
facility  in  rhyming,  recognized  my  true  instinct  in  paint- 
ing, and  sympathized  with  me  in  love  of  country  life  and 
picturesque  towns,  but  always  in  a quieting  and  reposeful 
maimer.  Once  in  after  life,  provoked  at  finding  myself  still 
unable  to  read  Greek  easily,  I intimated  to  him  a half -formed 
purpose  to  throw  everything  else  aside,  for  a time,  and  make 
myself  a sound  Greek  scholar.  “ I think  it  would  give  you 
more  trouble  than  it  is  worth,”  said  he.  Another  time,  as  I 
was  making  the  drawing  of  “ Chamouni  in  Afternoon  Sun- 
shine ” for  him,  (now  at  his  sister’s,)  I spoke  of  the  constant 
vexation  I suffered  because  I could  not  draw  better.  “ And 
I,”  he  said,  simply,  “ should  be  very  content  if  I could  draw 
at  all.” 

During  Gordon’s  stay  with  us,  this  1839  autumn,  we  got 
cur  second  Turner  drawing.  Certainly  the  most  curious 


OF  AGE. 


206 


failure  of  memory — among  the  many  I find — is  that  1 don’t 
know  when  I saw  my  first ! I feel  as  if  Mr.  Windiis’s  parlor  at 
Tottenham  had  been  familiar  to  me  since  the  dawn  of  exist- 
ence in  Brunswick  Square. 

Mr.  Godfrey  Windus  was  a retired  coachmaker,  living  in  a 
cheerful  little  villa,  with  low  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  open- 
ing pleasantly  into  each  other,  like  a sort  of  grouped  conser- 
vatory, between  his  front  and  back  gardens  : their  walls  beset, 
but  not  crowded,  with  Turner  drawings  of  the  England  se- 
ries; while  in  his  portfolio-stands,  coming  there  straight  from 
the  publishers  of  the  books  they  illustrated,  v/ere  the  entire 
series  of  the  illustrations  to  Scott,  to  Byron,  to  the  South 
Coast,  and  to  Einden’s  Bible. 

Nobody,  in  all  England,  at  that  time, — and  Turner  was 
already  sixty, — cared,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  for  Turner, 
but  the  retired  coachmaker  of  Tottenham,  and  I. 

Nor,  indeed,  could  the  public  ever  see  the  drawings,  so  as 
to  begin  to  care  for  them,  Mr.  Fawkes’s  were  shut  up  fit 
Farnle}^  Sir  Peregrine  Acland’s,  perishing  of  damj)  in  bis 
passages,  and  Mr.  Windus  bought  all  that  were  made  for 
engravers  as  soon  as  the  engraver  had  done  with  them.  The 
advantage,  however,  of  seeing  them  all  collected  at  bis  bouse, 
— he  gave  an  open  day  each  week,  and  to  me  the  run  of  bis 
rooms  at  any  time, — was,  to  the  general  student,  inestimable, 
and,  for  me,  the  means  of  writing  ‘'Modern  Painters.” 

It  is,  I think,  noteworthy  that,  although  first  attracted  to 
Turner  b}vthe  mountain  truth  in  Bogers’s  “Italy,” — when  I 
saw  the  drawings,  it  was  almost  wholly  the  pure  artistic  qual- 
ity that  fascinated  me,  whatever  the  subject ; so  that  I was  not 
in  the  least  hindered  by  the  beauty  of  Mr.  Windus’s  “ Llan- 
beris”or  “ Melrose”  from  being  quite  happy  when  my  father 
at  last  gave  me,  not  for  a beginning  of  Turner  collection,  but 
for  a specimen  of  Turner’s  work,  which  was  all — as  it  was 
supposed — I should  ever  need  or  aspire  to  possess,  the 
“Richmond  Bridge,  Surrey.” 

The  triumphant  talk  between  us  over  it,  when  we  brought 
it  home,  consisted,  as  I remember,  greatly  in  commendation 
of  the  quantity  of  Turnerian  subject  and  character  which  this 


206 


PR^^TERITA, 


single  specimen  united: — “it  had  trees,  architecture,  water, 
a lovely  sky,  and  a clustered  bouquet  of  brilliant  figures.” 

And  verily  the  Surrey  “Richmond”  remained  for  at  least  two 
years  our  only  Turner  possession,  and  the  second  we  bought, 
the  “ Gosport,”  which  came  home  when  Gordon  was  staying 
with  us,  had  still  none  of  the  delicate  beauty  of  Turner  except 
in  its  sky  ; nor  were  either  my  father  or  I the  least  offended  by 
the  ill-made  bonnets  of  the  lady-passengers  in  the  cutter,  nor 
by  the  helmsman’s  head  being  put  on  the  wrong  way. 

The  reader  is  not  to  think,  because  I speak  thus  frankly  of 
Turner’s  faults,  that  I judge  them  gTeater,  or  know  them 
better,  now,  than  I did  then.  I knew  them  at  this  time  of 
getting  “ Richmond  ” and  “ Gosport  ” just  as  well  as  other  peo- 
ple ; but  knew  also  the  power  shown  through  these  faults,  to  a 
degree  quite  wonderful  for  a boy  ; — it  being  my  chief  recrea- 
tion, after  Greek  or  trigonometry  in  the  nursery-study,  to  go 
down  and  feast  on  my  “Gosport.” 

And  so,  after  Christmas,  I went  back  to  Oxford  for  the  last 
push,  in  January,  1840,  and  did  very  steady  work  with  Gor- 
don, in  St.  Aldate’s ; * the  sense  that  I was  coming  of  age 
somewhat  increasing  the  feeling  of  responsibility  for  one’s 
time.  On  my  twenty-first,  birthday  my  father  brought  me  for 
a present  the  drawing  of  “ Winchelsea,” — a curious  choice,  and 
an  unlucky  one.  The  thunderous  sky  and  broken  white  light 
of  storm  round  the  distant  gate  and  scarcely  visible  church, 
were  but  too  true  symbols  of  the  time  thiit  was  coming  upon 
us  ; but  neither  he  nor  I were  given  to  reading  omens,  or 
dreading  them.  I suppose  he  had  been  struck  by  the  power  of 
the  drawing,  and  he  always  liked  soldiers.  I was  disappointed, 
and  saw  for  the  first  time  clearly  that  my  father’s  joy  in  Rubens 
and  Sir  Joshua  could  never  become  sentient  of  Turner’s  mi- 
croscopic touch.  But  I was  entirely  grateful  for  his  purpose, 

* The  street,  named  from  its  parish  church,  going  down  past  Christ 
Church  to  the  river.  It  was  tlie  regular  course  of  a gentleman  com- 
moner’s residence  to  be  promoted  from  Peckwater  to  Tom  Quad,  and 
turned  out  into  the  street  for  his  last  term.  I have  no  notion  at  this 
minute  who  St.  Aldate  was  ; — American  visitors  may  be  advised  that  in 
Oxford  it  will  be  expected  of  them  to  call  him^t.  Old. 


OF  AGE. 


207 


and  very  thankful  to  have  any  new  Turner  drawiiig  whatso- 
ever; and  as  at  home  the  “Gosport,”  so  in  St,  Aldate’s  the 
“ Winchelsea,”  was  the  chief  recreation  of  my  fatigued  hours. 

Tiiis  Turner  gift,  however,  was  only  complimeiitaiy.  The 
same  day  my  father  transferred  into  my  name  in  the  stocks  as 
much  as  would  bring  in  at  least  £200  a year,  and  watched 
with  some  anxiety  the  use  I should  make  of  this  first  com- 
mand of  money.  Not  that  I had  ever  been  under  definite 
restriction  about  it : at  Oxford  I ran  what  accounts  with  the 
tradesmen  I liked,  and  the  bills  were  sent  in  to  my  mother 
weekly  ; there  was  never  any  difficulty  or  demur  on  either 
side,  and  there  was  nothing  out  of  the  common  way  in  Oxford 
I wanted  to  buy,  except  the  engraving  of  Turner’s  “Grand 
Canal,”  for  my  room  wall, — and  “Monsieur  Jabot,”  the  first  I 
ever  saw  of  Topffer’s  rivalless  caricatures,  one  day  when  I had  a 
headache.  For  anything  on  which  my  state  or  comfort  in  the 
least  depended,  ray  father  w^as  more  disposed  to  be  extrava- 
gant than  I ; but  he  had  always  the  most  curious  suspicion  of 
my  taste  for  minerals,  and  only  the  year  before,  in  the  summer 
term,  was  entirely  vexed  and  discomfited  at  my  giving  eleven 
shillings  for  a piece  of  Cornish  chalcedony.  That  I never 
thought  of  buying  a mineral  without  telling  him  wdiat  I had  paid 
for  it,  besides  advising  him  duly  of  the  fact,  curiously  marks 
the  intimate  confidence  betw^een  us  : but  alas,  my  respect  for 
his  judgment  was  at  this  time  by  these  littlenesses  gradually 
diminished  ; and  my  confidence  in  my  own  painfully  mani- 
fested to  him  a very  little  while  after  he  had  permitted  me  the 
above-stated  measure  of  independence.  The  Turner  drawings 
hitherto  bought, — “ Richmond,”  “ Gosport,”  “ Winchelsea,” — 
were  all  supplied  by  Mr.  Griffith,  an  agent  in  whom  Turner  had 
perfect  confidence,  and  my  father  none.  Both  were  fatally 
wrong.  Had  Turner  dealt  straight  wdth  my  father,  there  is  no 
saying  how  much  happiness  might  have  come  of  it  for  all  three 
of  us  ; had  my  father  not  been  always  afraid  of  being  taken  in 
by  Mr.  Griffith,  he  might  at  that  time  have  bought  some  of  the 
loveliest  drawings  that  Turner  ever  made,  at  entirely  fair 
prices.  But  Mr.  Griffith’s  art-salesmanship  entirely  offended 
my  father  from  the  first,  and  the  best  drawings  were  always 


208 


PR.HJTERITA. 


let  pass,  because  Mr.  Griffith  recommended  them,  while 
“ Wiiichelsea ” and  ‘‘Gosport”  were  both  bought — among 
other  reasons — because  Mr.  Griffith  said  they  were  not  draw- 
ings wdiich  we  ought  to  have  ! 

Among  those  of  purest  quality  in  his  folios  at  this  time  w^as 
one  I especially  coveted,  the  “Harlech.”  There  had  been  a 
good  deal  of  dealers’  yea  and  nay  about  it,  whether  it  was  for 
sale  or  not ; it  was  a smaller  drawing  than  most  of  the  England 
and  Wales  series,  and  there  were  many  hints  in  the  market 
about  its  being  iniquitous  in  price.  The  private  view  day  of 
the  Old  Water  Color  came  ; and,  arm  in  arm  with  my  father, 
I met  Mr.  Griffith  in  the  crowd.  After  the  proper  five  min- 
utes of  how  we  liked  the  exhibition,  he  turned  specially  to 
me.  “ I have  some  good  news  for  you,  the  Harlech  is  really 
for  sale.”  “ I’ll  take  it  then,”  I replied,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  at  my  father,  and  without  asking  the  price.  Smiling 
a little  ironically,  Mr.  Griffith  went  on,  “And — seventy,” — 
implying  that  seventy  was  a low  price,  at  once  told  me  in  an- 
sw^er  to  my  confidence.  But  it  w^as  thirty  above  the  “ Win- 
chelsea,”  twenty-four  above  “Gosport,”  and  my  father  w>^as  of 
course  sure  that  Mr.  Griffith  had  put  twenty  pounds  on  at 
the  instant. 

The  mingled  grief  and  scorn  on  his  face  told  me  what  I had 
done  ; but  I w^as  too  happy  on  pouncing  on  my  “Harlech  ” to 
feel  for  him.  All  sorts  of  blindness  and  error  on  both  sides, 
but,  on  his  side,  inevitable, — on  mine,  more  foolish  than  cul- 
pable ; fatal  every  way,  beyond  words. 

I can  scarcely  understand  my  eagerness  and  delight  in  get- 
ting the  “ Harlech  ” at  this  time,  because,  during  the  winter, 
negotiations  had  been  carried  on  in  Paris  for  AdMe’s  mar- 
riage ; and  it  does  not  seem  as  if  I had  been  really  so  much 
crushed  by  that  event  as  I expected  to  be.  There  are  expres- 
sions, however,  in  the  foolish  diaries  I began  to  write,  soon 
after,  of  general  disdain  of  life,  and  all  that  it  could  in  future 
bestow  on  me,  which  seem  inconsistent  with  extreme  satis- 
faction in  getting  a water-color  drawing,  sixteen  inches  by 
nine.  But  whatever  germs  of  better  things  remained  in  me, 
were  then  all  centred  in  this  love  of  Turner.  It  was  not  a 


OF  AGE. 


200 


piece  of  painted  paper,  but  a Welsh  castle  and  village,  and 
Snowdon  in  blue  cloud,  that  I bought  for  my  seventy  pounds. 
This  must  have  been  in  the  Easter  holidays  ; — “ Harlech”  was 
brought  home  and  safely  installed  in  the  drawing-room  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace  from  my  idol-niche  : and  I went 
triumphantly  back  to  St.  Aldate's  and  “ Wiiicbelsea.” 

Ill  spite  of  Gordon’s  wholesome  moderatorship,  the  work 
had  come  by  that  time  to  high  pressure,  until  twelve  at  night 
from  six  in  the  morning,  with  little  exercise,  no  cheerfulness, 
and  no  sense  of  any  use  in  what  I read,  to  myself  or  anybody 
else  : things  progressing  also  smoothly  in  Paris,  to  the  abyss. 
One  evening,  after  Gordon  had  left  me,  about  ten  o’clock,  a 
short  tickling  cough  surprised  me,  because  preceded  by  a 
curious  sensation  in  the  throat,  and  followed  by  a curious  taste 
in  the  mouth,  which  I presently  perceived  to  be  that  of  blood. 
It  must  have  been  on  a Saturday  or  Sunday  evening,  for  my 
father,  as  well  as  my  mother,  was  in  the  High  Street  lodgings. 
I walked  round  to  them  and  told  them  what  had  happened. 

My  mother,  an  entirely  skilled  physician  in  all  forms  of 
consumptive  disease,  was  not  frightened,  but  sent  round  to 
the  Deanery  to  ask  leave  for  me  to  sleep  out  of  my  lodgings. 
Morning  consultations  ended  in  our  going  up  to  town,  and 
town  consultations  in  my  being  forbid  any  farther  reading 
under  pressure,  and  in  the  Dean’s  giving  me,  with  many 
growls,  permission  to  put  off  taking  my  degree  for  a year. 
During  the  month  or  two  following,  passed  at  Herne  Hill,  my 
father’s  disappointment  at  the  end  of  his  hopes  of  my  obtain- 
ing distinction  in  Oxford  was  sorrowfully  silenced  by  his  anx- 
iety for  my  life.  Once  or  twice  the  short  cough  and  mouth- 
taste — it  was  no  more — of  blood,  returned  ; but  my  mother 
steadil}^  maintained  there  was  nothing  serious  the  matter,  and 
that  I only  wanted  rest  and  fresh  air.  The  doctors,  almost 
unanimously, — Sir  James  Clarke  excepted, — gave  gloomier 
view^s.  Sir  James  cheerfully,  but  decidedly,  ordered  me 
abroad  before  autumn,  to  be  as  much  in  open  carriages  as 
possible,  and  to  winter  in  Italy. 

And  Mr.  Telford  consented  to  sit  in  the  counting-house, 
and  the  clerks  promised  to  be  diligent ; and  my  father,  to 
14 


210 


PR^TERITA. 


whom  the  business  was  nothing,  but  for  me,  left  his  desk, 
and  all  other  cares  of  life,  but  that  of  nursing  me. 

Of  his  own  feelings,  he  said  little  ; mine,  in  the  sickly  fer- 
mentation of  temper  I was  in,  were  little  deserving  of  utter- 
ance, describable  indeed  less  as  feelings  than  as  the  want  of 
them,  in  all  wholesome  directions  but  one  ; — magnetic  point- 
ing to  all  presence  of  natural  beauty,  and  to  the  poles  of  such 
art  and  science  as  interpreted  it.  My  preparations  for  the 
journey  were  made  with  some  renewal  of  spirit ; my  mother 
was  steadil}",  bravely,  habituallj^  cheerful ; while  my  father, 
capable  to  the  utmost  of  every  wise  enjoyment  in  travelling, 
and  most  of  all,  of  that  in  lovely  landscape,  had  some  personal 
joy  in  the  thought  of  seeing  South  Italy.  The  attacks  of  the 
throat  cough  seemed  to  have  ceased,  and  the  line  of  our  jour- 
ney began  to  be  planned  with  some  of  the  old  exultation. 

That  we  might  not  go  through  Paris,  the  route  was  ar- 
ranged by  Rouen  and  the  Loire  to  Tours,  then  across  France 
by  Auvergne,  and  down  the  Rlione  to  Avignon ; thence,  by 
the  Riviera  and  Florence,  to  the  South. 

“ And  is  there  to  be  no  more  Oxford  asks  Froude,  a little 
reproachfully,  in  a recent  letter  concerning  these  memoranda  ; 
for  he  was  at  Oriel  while  I was  at  Christ  Church,  and  does 
not  think  I have  given  an  exhaustive  view  either  of  the  stud- 
ies or  manners  of  the  University  in  our  day. 

No,  dear  friend.  I have  no  space  in  this  story  to  describe 
the  advantages  I never  used  ; nor  does  my  own  failure  give 
me  right  to  blame,  even  were  there  an}'’  use  in  blaming,  a sys- 
tem now  passed  away.  Oxford  taught  me  as  much  Creek 
and  Latin  as  she  could ; and  though  I think  she  might  also 
have  told  me  that  fritillaries  grew  in  Ifiley  meadow,  it  was 
better  that  she  left  me  to  find  them  for  myself,  than  that  she 
should  have  told  me,  as  nowadays  she  would,  that  the  paint- 
ing on  them  was  only  to  amuse  the  midges.  For  the  rest,  the 
whole  time  I was  there,  my  mind  was  simply  in  the  state  of  a 
squash  before  ’tis  a peascod, — and  remained  so  yet  a year  or 
two  afterward,  I grieve  to  say  ; — so  that  for  any  account  of 
my  real  life,  the  gossip  hitherto  given  to  its  codling  or  cocoon 
condition  has  brought  us  but  a little  way.  I must  get  on 


HOME. 


211 


to  the  days  of  opening  sight,  and  effective  labor ; and  to  the 
scenes  of  nobler  education  which  all  men,  who  keep  their 
hearts  open,  receive  in  the  End  of  Days. 


CHAPTER  II. 


ROME. 

However  dearly  bought,  tlie  permission  to  cease  reading, 
and  put  what  strength  was  left  into  my  sketching  again, 
gave  healthy  stimulus  to  all  faculties  which  had  been  latently 
progressive  in  me  ; and  the  sketch-books  and  rulers  were 
prepared  for  this  journey  on  hitherto  unexampled  stateliness 
of  system. 

It  had  chanced,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  that  David  Rob- 
erts had  brought  home  and  exhibited  his  sketches  in  Egypt 
and  the  Holy  Land.  They  were  the  first  studies  ever  made 
conscientiously  by  an  English  painter,  not  to  exhibit  his  own 
skill,  or  make  capital  out  of  his  subjects,  but  to  give  true  por- 
traiture of  scenes  of  historical  and  religious  interest.  They 
were  faithful  and  laborious  beyond  any  outlines  from  nature 
I had  ever  seen,  and  I felt  also  that  their  severely  restricted 
method  was  within  reach  of  my  own  skill,  and  applicable  to 
all  my  own  purposes. 

With  Roberts’s  deficiencies  or  mannerism  I have  here  no 
concern.  He  taught  me,  of  absolute  good,  the  use  of  tlie 
fine  point  instead  of  the  blunt  one  ; attention  and  indefatiga- 
ble correctness  in  detail ; and  the  simplest  means  of  express- 
ing ordinary  light  and  shade  on  gray  ground,  flat  wash  for 
the  full  shadows,  and  heightening  of  the  gradated  lights  by 
warm  white. 

I tried  these  adopted  principles  first  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  Chateau  de  Blois  : and  came  in  to  papa  and  mamma  de- 
claring that  “ Prout  would  give  his  ears  to  make  such  a draw- 
ing as  that.” 

AVith  some  trutli  and  modesty,  I might  have  said  he  would 
have  changed  eyes  with  me  ; ” for  Prout’s  manner  was  grave- 


212 


PRJETERITA. 


ly  restricted  by  his  nearness  of  sight.  But  also  this  Blois 
sketch  showed  some  dawning  notions  of  grace  in  proportion, 
and  largeness  of  effect,  which  enabled  me  for  the  first  time 
that  year,  to  render  continental  subjects  with  just  expression 
of  their  character  and  scale,  and  well-rounded  solidification 
of  pillars  and  sculpture. 

The  last  days  of  the  summer  were  well  spent  at  Amboise, 
Tours,  Aubusson,  Pont  Gibaud,  and  Le  Puy ; but  as  we 
emerged  into  the  Khone  valley,  autumn  broke  angrily  on  us  ; 
and  the  journey  by  Yalence  to  Avignon  was  all  made  gloomy 
by  the  ravage  of  a just  past  inundation,  of  which  the  main 
mass  at  Montelimar  had  risen  from  six  to  eight  feet  in  the 
streets,  and  the  slime  remained,  instead  of  fields,  over — I for- 
get in  fact,  and  can  scarcely  venture  to  conceive, — what  ex- 
tent of  plain.  The  Ehone,  through  these  vast  gravelly  levels 
a mere  driving  weight  of  discolored  water  ; — the  Alps,  on  the 
other  side,  now  in  late  autumn  snowless  up  to  their  lower 
peaks,  and  showing  few  eminent  ones ; — the  bise,  now  first 
letting  one  feel  what  malignant  wind  could  be, — might,  per- 
haps, all  be  more  depressing  to  me  in  my  then  state  of  tem- 
per ; but  I have  never  cared  to  see  the  lower  Rhone  any  more  ; 
and  to  my  love  of  cottage  rather  than  castle,  added  at  this 
time  another  strong  moral  principle,  that  if  ever  one  was 
metamorphosed  into  a river,  and  could  choose  one’s  own  size, 
it  would  be  out  of  all  doubt  more  prudent  and  delightful  to 
be  Tees  or  Wharfe  than  Rhone. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  at  Frejus,  and  on  the  Esterello 
and  the  Western  Riviera,  I saw  some  initial  letters  of  Italy,  as 
distinct  from  Lombardy, — Italy  of  the  stone  pine  and  orange 
and  palm,  white  villa  and  blue  sea  ; and  saw  it  with  right 
judgment,  as  a wreck,  and  a viciously  neglected  one. 

I don’t  think  the  reader  has  yet  been  informed  that  I inher- 
ited to  the  full  my  mother’s  love  of  tidiness  and  cleanliness ; 
so  that  quite  one  of  the  most  poetical  charms  of  Switzerland 
to  me,  next  to  her  white  snows,  was  her  white  sleeves.  Also 
I had  my  father’s  love  of  solidity  and  soundness, — of  unve- 
neered, unrouged,  and  well  finished  things  ; and  here  on  the 
Riviera  there  were  lemons  and  palms,  yes, — but  the  lemons 


ROME. 


213 


pale,  and  mostly  skin  ; the  palms  not  much  larger  than  para- 
sols ; the  sea — blue,  yes,  but  its  beach  nasty  ; the  buildings, 
pompous,  luxurious,  painted  like  Grimaldi, — usually  broken 
down  at  the  ends,  and  in  the  middle,  having  sham  architraves 
daubed  over  windows  with  no  glass  in  them  ; the  rocks  shaly 
and  ragged,  the  people  filthy  : and  over  everything,  a coat  of 
plaster  dust. 

I was  in  a bad  humor?  Yes,  but  everything  I have  de- 
scribed is  as  I say,  for  all  that ; and  though  the  last  time  I 
was  at  Sestri  I wanted  to  stay  there,  the  ladies  with  me 
wouldn’t  and  couldn’t,  because  of  the  filth  of  the  inn  ; and 
the  last  time  I was  at  Genoa,  1882,  my  walk  round  the  ram- 
parts was  only  to  study  what  uglinesses  of  plants  liked  to  grow 
in  dust,  and  crawl,  like  the  lizards,  into  clefts  of  ruin. 

At  Genoa  I saw  then  for  the  first  time  the  circular  Pieta 
by  Michael  Angelo,  which  was  my  initiation  in  all  Italian  art. 
For  at  this  time  I understood  no  jot  of  Italian  painting,  but 
onl^^  Rubens,  Vandyke,  and  Velasquez.  At  Genoa,  I did  not 
even  hunt  down  the  Vandykes,  but  went  into  the  confused 
frontage  of  the  city  at  its  port,  (no  traversing  blank  quay 
blocking  out  the  sea,  then,)  and  drew  the  crescent  of  houses 
round  the  harbor,  borne  on  their  ancient  arches ; — a noble 
subject,  and  one  of  the  best  sketches  I ever  made. 

From  Genoa,  more  happy  journey  by  the  Eastern  Riviera 
began  to  restore  my  spring  of  heart,  I am  just  in  time,  in 
wwiting  these  memories,  to  catch  the  vision  of  the  crossing 
Magra,  in  old  time,  and  some  of  the  other  mountain  streams 
of  the  two  Rivieras. 

It  seems  unbelievable  to  myself,  as  I set  it  dowm,  but  there 
were  then  only  narrow  mule  bridges  over  the  greater  streams 
on  either  side  of  which  were  grouped  the  villages,  where  the 
river  slackened  behind  its  sea  bar.  Of  course,  in  the  large 
towns,  Albenga,  Savona,  Ventimiglia,  and  so  on,  there  were 
proper  bridges  ; but  at  the  intermediate  hamlets  (and  the 
torrents  round  whose  embouchures  they  grew  were  often 
formidable),  the  country  people  trusted  to  the  slack  of  the  water 
at  the  bar,  and  its  frequent  failure  altogether  in  summer,  for 
traverse  of  their  own  carrioles : and  had  neither  mind  nor 


214 


PR^TERITA. 


means  to  build  Waterloo  bridges  for  the  convenience  of 
English  carriages  and  four.  The  English  carriage  got  across 
the  shingle  how  it  could  ; the  boys  of  the  village,  if  the  horses 
could  not  pull  it  through,  harnessed  themselves  in  front ; and 
in  wiudy  weather,  with  deep  water  on  the  inside  of  the 
bar,  and  blue  breakers  on  the  other,  one  really  began  some- 
times to  think  of  the  slackening  wheels  of  Pharaoh. 

It  chanced  that  there  were  two  days  of  rain  as  we  passed 
the  Western  Kiviera  ; there  was  a hot  night  at  Albenga  before 
they  came  on,  and  my  father  wrote — which  was  extremely 
wrong  of  him — a parody  of  “Woe  is  me,  Alhama,”  the  refrain 
being  instead,  “Woe  is  me,  Albenga;”  the  Moorish  minarets 
of  the  old  town  and  its  Saracen  legends,  I suppose,  having 
brought  “ the  Moorish  King  rode  up  and  down  ” into  his  head. 
Then  the  rain,  with  wild  sirocco,  came  on  ; and  somewhere 
near  Savona  there  was  a pause  at  the  brink  of  one  of  the 
streams,  in  rather  angry  flood,  and  some  question  if  the  car- 
riage could  get  through.  Loaded,  it  could  not,  and 
everybody  was  ordered  to  get  out  and  be  carried  across,  the 
carriage  to  follow,  in  such  shifts  as  it  might.  Everybody 
obeyed  these  orders,  and  submitted  to  the  national  customs 
with  great  hilarity,  except  my  mother,  who  absolutely  refused 
to  be  carried  in  the  arms  of  an  Italian  ragged  opera  hero, 
more  or  less  resembling  the  figures  wKom  she  had  seen  carry- 
ing off  into  the  mountains  the  terrified  Taglioni,  or  Cerito. 
Out  of  the  carriage  she  would  not  move,  on  any  solicitation  ; 
— -if  they  could  pull  the  carriage  through,  they  could  pull  her 
too,  she  said.  My  father  was  alike  alarmed  and  angry,  but 
ns  the  surrounding  opera  corps  de  ballet  seemed  to  look  on 
the  whole  thing  rather  as  a jest  and  an  occasion  for  bajocco 
gathering,  than  any  crisis  of  fate,  my  mother  had  her  way  ; 
a good  team  of  bare-legged  youngsters  was  put  to,  and  she 
and  the  carriage  entered  the  stream  with  shouting.  Two- 
thirds  through,  the  sand  was  soft,  and  horses  and  boys  stopped 
to  breathe.  There  was  another,  and  really  now  serious,  re- 
monstrance with  my  mother,  we  being  all  nervous  about  quick- 
sands, as  if  it  had  been  the  middle  of  Lancaster  Bay.  But 
stir  she  would  not ; the  horses  got  their  wind  again,  and  the 


HOME. 


215 


boys  their  way,  and  with  much  whip  cracking  and  splashing, 
carriage  and  dama  Inglese  were  victoriously  dragged  to  dry 
land,  with  general  promotion  of  good  will  between  the  two 
nations. 

Of  the  passage  of  Magra,  a day  or  two  afterward,  my  mem- 
ory is  vague  as  its  own  waves.  There  were  all  sorts  of  paths 
across  the  tract  of  troubled  shingle,  and  I was  thinking  of  the 
Carrara  mountains  beyond,  all  the  while.  Most  of  the  streams 
fordable  easily  enough ; a plank  or  two,  loosely  propped  with 
a heap  of  stones,  for  pier  and  buttress,  replaced  after  every 
storm,  served  the  foot-passenger.  The  main  stream  could 
neither  be  bridged  nor  forded,  but  was  clumsily  ferried,  and 
at  one  place  my  mother  had  no  choice  really  but  between 
wading  or  being  carried.  She  suffered  the  indignity,  I think 
with  some  feeling  of  its  being  a consequence  of  the  French 
Bevolution,  and  remained  cross  all  the  way  to  Carrara. 

We  were  going  on  to  Massa  to  sleep,  but  had  time  to  stop 
and  walk  up  the  dazzling  white  road  to  the  lower  quarry,  and 
even  to  look  into  one  or  two  “ studios,” — beginnings  of  my 
fixed  contempt  for  rooms  so  called,  ever  since.  Nevertheless, 
partly  in  my  father’s  sense  of  what  was  kind  and  proper  to 
be  done, — partly  byway  of  buying  “a  trifle  from  Matlock,” — 
and  partly  because  he  and  I both  liked  the  fancy  of  the 
group,  we  bought  a two-feet-high  “Bacchus  and  Ariadne,” 
copied  from  I know  not  what  (we  supposed  classic)  original, 
and  with  as  much  art  in  it  as  usually  goes  to  a French  time- 
piece. It  remained  long  on  a pedestal  in  the  library  at  Den- 
mark Hill,  till  it  got  smoked,  and  was  put  out  of  the  way. 

With  the  passage  of  the  Magra,  and  the  purchase  of  the 
Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  to  remain  for  a sort  of  monument  of 
the  two-feet  high  knowledge  of  classic  art  then  possessed  by 
me,  ended  the  state  of  mind  in  which  my  notions  of  sculp- 
ture lay  between  Chantrey  and  Boubilliac.  Across  Magra  I 
felt  that  I was  in  Italy  proper ; the  next  day  we  drove  over 
the  bridge  of  Serchio  into  Lucca. 

I am  wrong  in  saying  I “ felt,”  then,  I was  in  Italy  proper. 
It  is  only  in  looking  back  that  I can  mark  the  exact  point 
where  the  tide  began  to  turn  for  me  ; and  total  ignorance  of 


216 


PRMTEUITA. 


what  early  Christian  art  meant,  and  of  what  living  sculpture 
meant,  were  first  pierced  by  vague  wonder  and  embarrassed 
awe,  at  the  new  mystery  round  me.  The  effect  of  Lucca  on 
me  at  this  time  is  now  quite  confused  with  the  far  greater  one 
in  1845.  Not  so  that  of  the  first  sight  of  Pisa,  where  the  so- 
lemnity and  purity  of  its  architecture  impressed  me  deeply  ; 
— yet  chiefly  in  connection  with  Byron  and  Shelley.  A 
masked  brother  of  the  Misericordia  first  met  us  in  the  cathe- 
dral of  Lucca  ; but  the  possible  occurrence  of  the  dark  figures 
in  the  open  sunlight  of  the  streets  added  greatly  to  the  im- 
aginative effect  of  Pisa  on  my  then  nervous  and  depressed 
fancy.  I drew  the  Spina  Chapel  with  the  Ponte-a-Mare  be- 
yond, very  usefully  and  well ; but  the  languor  of  the  muddy 
Arno  as  against  Reuss,  or  Genevoise  Rhone,  made  me  sus- 
pect all  past  or  future  description  of  Italian  rivers.  Singu- 
larly, I never  saw  Arno  in  full  flood  till  1882,  nor  understood 
till  then  that  all  the  rivers  of  Italy  are  mountain  torrents.  I 
am  ashamed,  myself,  to  read,  but  feel  it  an  inevitable  duty  to 
print,  the  piece  of  diary  which  records  my  first  impression  of 
Florence. 

“ November  13th,  1840.  I have  just  been  walking,  or 
sauntering,  in  the  square  of  the  statues,  the  air  perfectly 
balmy ; and  I shall  not  soon  forget,  I hope,  the  impression 
left  by  this  square  as  it  opened  from  the  river,  with  the  enor- 
mous mass  of  tower  above, — or  of  the  Duomo  itself.  I had 
not  expected  any  mass  of  a church,  rather  something  grace- 
ful, like  La  Salute  at  Venice  ; and,  luckily,  coming  on  it  at 
the  southeast  angle,  where  the  gallery  round  the  dome  is 
complete,  got  nearly  run  over  before  I recovered  from  the 
stun  of  the  effect.  Not  that  it  is  good  as  architecture  even 
in  its  own  barbarous  style.  I cannot  tell  what  to  think  of  it  ; 
but  the  wealth  of  exterior  marble  is  quite  overwhelming,  and 
the  motion  of  magnificent  figure  in  marble  and  bronze  about 
the  great  square,  thrilling. 

“ Nov.  15tli.  I still  cannot  make  up  my  mind  about  this 
place,  though  my  present  feelings  are  of  grievous  disappoint- 
ment. The  galleries,  which  I walked  through  yesterday,  are 
impressive  enough  ; but  I had  as  soon  be  in  the  British  Mu- 


HOME.  217 

seum,  as  far  as  enjoyment  goes,  except  for  the  Kapliaels.  I 
can  understand  nothing  else,  and  not  much  of  them” 

At  Florence  then,  this  time,  the  Newgate -like  palaces  were 
rightly  hateful  to  me  ; the  old  shop  and  market  streets  right- 
ly pleasant ; the  inside  of  the  Duomo  a horror,  the  outside 
a Chinese  puzzle.  All  sacred  art, — frescoes,  tempera,  wdiat 
not,  mere  zero,  as  they  were  to  the  Italians  themselves  ; 
the  country  round,  dead  wall  and  dusty  olive  ; — the  whole, 
a provocation  and  weariness,  except  for  one  master,  M.  An- 
gelo. 

I saw  at  once  in  him  that  there  w^as  emotion  and  human 
life,  more  than  in  the  Greeks  ; and  a severity  and  meaning 
which  were  not  in  Rubens.  Eveiybody  about  me  swearing 
that  Michael  Angelo  was  the  finest  thing  in  the  world,  I was 
extremely  proud  of  being  pleased  with  him  ; confirmed  great- 
ly in  my  notion  of  my  own  infallibility,  and  with  help  of 
Rogers  in  the  Lorenzo  Chapel,  and  long  sittings  and  stand- 
ings about  the  Bacchus  in  the  XJfnzii,  progressed  greatly  and 
vitally  in  Michael-Angelesque  directions.  But  I at  once  pro- 
nounced the  knife-grinder  in  the  Tribune  a vulgar  nuisance, 
as  I do  still  ; the  Venus  de  Medicis,  an  uninteresting  little 
person  ; Raphael’s  St.  John,  a piece  of  black  bombast  ; and 
the  Ufiizii  collection  in  general,  an  unbecoming  medley,  got 
together  by  people  who  knew  nothing,  and  cared  less  than 
nothing,^  about  the  arts.  On  the  wLole,  when  I last  wailk- 
ed  through  the  Ufiizii,  in  1882,  I was  precisely  of  the  same 
opinion,  and  proud  of  having  arrived  at  it  so  quickly.  It  >vas 
not  to  be  expected  of  me  at  that  time  to  like  either  Angelico 
or  Botticelli ; and  if  I had,  the  upper  corridor  of  the  Ufiizii 
was  an  entirely  vile  and  contemptible  place  wherein  to  see 
the  great  Madonna  of  the  one,  or  the  Venus  Marina  of  the 
other.  Both  were  then  in  the  outer  passage  from  the  en- 
trance to  the  Tribune. 

These  conclusions  being  comfortably  arrived  at,  I sate  my- 
self dowm  in  the  middle  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  made 


* That  is,  cared  the  wrong  way, — liked  them  for  their  meanest  skills, 
and  worst  uses. 


218 


mjETmiTA, 


a very  true  and  valuable  sketch  of  the  general  perspective 
of  its  shops  and  the  buildings  beyond,  looking  toward  the 
Duomo.  I seem  to  have  had  time  or  will  for  no  more  in 
Florence  ; the  Mercato  Vecchio  was  too  crowded  to  work  in, 
and  the  carving  of  the  Duomo  could  not  be  disengaged  from 
its  color.  Hopeful,  but  now  somewhat  doubtful,  of  finding 
things  more  to  our  mind  in  the  south,  we  drove  through  the 
Porta  Eomana. 

Siena,  Eadicofani,  Viterbo,  and  the  fourth  day,  Eome  ; — a 
gloomy  journey,  with  gloomier  rests.  I had  a bad  weary 
headache  at  Siena  ; and  the  cathedral  seemed  to  me  every 
way  absurd — over-cut,  over-striped,  over-crocketed,  overga- 
bled,  a piece  of  costly  confectionery,  and  faithless  vanity.  In 
the  main  it  is  so  : the  power  of  Siena  was  in  her  old  cathe- 
dral, her  Edward  the  Confessor’s  Westminster.  Is  the  ruin 
of  it  yet  spared  ? 

The  volcanic  desert  of  Eadicofani,  with  gathering  storm, 
and  an  ominously  .dDolian  keyhole  in  a vile  inn,  remained 
long  to  all  of  us  a terrific  memory.  At  Viterbo  I was  better, 
and  made  a sketch  of  the  convent  on  one  side  of  the  square, 
rightly  felt  and  done.  On  the  fourth  day  papa  and  mamma 
observed  with  triumph,  though  much  worried  by  the  jolting, 
that  every  mile  nearer  Eome  the  road  got  worse ! 

My  stock  of  Latin  learning,  with  which  to  begin  my  studies 
of  the  city,  consisted  of  the  two  first  books  of  Livy,  never 
well  known,  and  the  names  of  places  remembered  without 
ever  looking  where  they  were  on  a map  ; Juvenal,  a page 
or  two  of  Tacitus,  and  in  Virgil  the  burning  of  Troy,  the  story 
of  Dido,  the  episode  of  Euryalus,  and  the  last  battle.  Of 
course,  I had  nominally  read  the  whole  “.®neid,”  but  thought 
most  of  it  nonsense.  Of  later  Eoman  history,  I had  read 
English  abstracts  of  the  imperial  vices,  and  supposed  the 
malaria  in  the  Campagna  to  be  the  consequence  of  the  Papacy. 
I had  never  heard  of  a good  Eoman  emperor,  or  a good  pope  ; 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  Trajan  lived  before  Christ  or 
after,  and  would  have  thanked,  with  a sense  of  relieved  satis- 
faction, anybody  who  might  have  told  me  that  Marcus  Anto- 
ninus was  a Eoman  philosopher  contemporary  with  Socrates. 


ROME. 


219 


The  first  sight  of  St.  Peter’s  dome,  twenty  miles  away,  w'as 
little  more  to  any  of  us  than  the  apparition  of  a gray  mile- 
stone, announcing  twenty  miles  yet  of  stony  road  before  rest. 
The  first  sluggish  reach  of  Tiber,  with  its  mud  shore  and 
ochreous  water,  was  a quite  vile  and  saddening  sight  to  me, 
— as  compared  witli  breezy  tide  of  Thames,  seen  from  Nanny 
Ciowsley’s.  The  Piazza  del  Popolo  was  as  familiar  to  me, 
from  paintings,  as  Clieapside,  and  much  less  interesting.  "Wo 
went,  of  course,  to  some  hotel  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  I 
went  to  bed  tired  and  sulky  at  finding  myself  in  a big  street- 
of  a big  modern  town,  with  nothing  to  draw,  and  no  end  ol 
things  to  be  bothered  with.  Next  da}%  waking  refreshed,  of 
course  I said,  “I  am  in  Rome,”  after  Mr.  Rogers  ; and  acconn 
panied  papa  and  mamma,  with  a tinge  of  curiosity,  to  St. 
Peter’s. 

Most  people  and  books  had  told  me  I should  be  disap- 
pointed in  its  appearance  of  size.  But  I have  not  vainly 
boasted  my  habit  and  faculty  of  measuring  magnitudes,  and 
there  was  no  question  to  me  how  big  it  was.  The  characters 
I was  not  prepared  for  were  the  clumsy  dulness  of  the  facade, 
and  the  entirely  vile  taste  and  vapid  design  of  the  interior. 
We  walked  round  it,  saw  the  mosaic  copies  of  pictures  we  did 
not  care  for,  the  pompous  tombs  of  people  whose  names  we 
did  not  know,  got  out  to  the  fresh  air  and  fountains  again 
with  infinite  sense  of  relief,  and  never  again  went  near  the 
place,  any  of  us,  except  to  hear  music,  or  see  processions  and 
paraphernalia. 

So  we  went  home  to  lunch,  and  of  course  drove  about  the 
town  in  the  afternoon,  and  saw  the  Forum,  Coliseum,  and 
so  on.  I had  no  distinct  idea  wFat  the  Forum  was  or  ever 
had  been,  or  how  the  three  pillars,  or  the  seven,  were  connect- 
ed with  it,  or  the  Arch  of  Severus,  standing  without  any  road 
underneath,  or  the  ragged  block  of  buildings  above,  with 
their  tower  of  the  commonest  possible  eighteenth  century 
t}^pe.  There  was,  however,  one  extreme  good  in  all  this,  that 
I saw  things,  with  whatever  faculty  was  in  me,  exactly  /or 
what  they  were  ; and  though  my  religious  instruction,  as  afore- 
said, led  me  to  suppose  the  malaria  in  the  Campagna  was  the 


220 


PBJETEBITA. 


consequence  of  the  Papacy,  that  did  not  in  the  least  affect  my 
'’lear  and  invincible  perception  that  the  outline  of  Soracte 
was  good,  and  the  outlines  of  tufo  and  pozzolana  foregrounds 
bad,  whether  it  was  Papal  or  Protestant  pozzolana.  What 
the  Forum  or  Capitol  had  been,  I did  not  in  the  least  care  ; 
the  pillars  of  the  Forum  I saw  were  on  a small  scale,  and  their 
capitals  rudely  carved,  and  the  houses  above  them  nothing 
like  so  interesting  as  the  side  of  any  close  in  the  “ Auld  toun  ” 
of  Edinburgh. 

Having  ascertained  these  general  facts  about  the  city  and 
its  ruins,  I had  to  begin  my  gallery  work.  Of  course  all  the 
great  religious  paintings,  Perugino’s  antechamber,  Angelico’s 
chapel,  and  the  whole  lower  story  of  the  Sistine,  were  entirely 
useless  to  me.  No  soul  ever  bade  me  look  at  them,  and  I 
had  no  sense  yet  to  find  them  out  for  myself.  Eveiybody 
told  me  to  look  at  the  roof  of  the  Sistine  chapel,  and  I liked  it ; 
but  eveiybody  also  told  me  to  look  at  Raphael’s  “Transfigura- 
tion,” and  Domenichino’s  “St.  Jerome  which  also  I did  at- 
tentively, as  I was  bid,  and  pronounced — without  the  smallest 
hesitation — Domenichino’s  a bad  picture,  and  Raphael’s  an 
ugly  one  ; and  thenceforward  paid  no  more  attention  to  what 
anybody  said  (unless  I happened  to  agree  with  it)  on  the  sub- 
ject of  painting. 

Sir  Joshua’s  verdict  on  the  “ Stanze  ” was  a different  matter, 
and  I studied  them  long  and  carefull}',  admitting  at  once  that 
there  was  more  in  them  than  I was  the  least  able  to  see  or 
understand,  but  decisively  ascertaining  that  they  could  not 
give  me  the  least  pleasure,  and  contained  a mixture  of  Pagan- 
ism and  Papacy  wholly  inconsistent  with  the  religious  in- 
struction I had  received  in  Walworth. 

Having  laid  these  foundations  of  future  study,  I never 
afterward  had  occasion  seriously  to  interfere  with  them.  Do- 
menichino  is  always  spoken  of — as  long  as,  in  deference  to 
Sir  Joshua,  I name  him  at  all — as  an  entirely  bad  painter ; 
the  “Stanze,”  as  never  giving,  or  likely  to  give,  anybody  in  a 
healthy  state  of  mind, — that  is  to  say,  desirous  of  knowing 
what  sibyls  were  really  like,  or  how  a Greek  conceived  the 
Muses, — the  slightest  pleasure ; and  the  opposition  of  the 


ROME. 


221 


Parnassus  to  the  Disputa,  shown,  in  the  Stones  of  Venice,”* 
to  foretell  the  fall  of  Catholic  Theology. 

Tlie  main  wonders  of  Rome  thus  taken  stock  of,  and  the 
coarse  of  minor  sight-seeing  begun,  we  thought  it  time  to 
present  a letter  of  introduction  which  Henry  Acland  had  given 
me  to  Mr.  Joseph  Severn. 

Although  in  the  large  octavo  volume  containing  the  Avorks 
of  Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  Avhich  so  often  lay  on  my 
niclie-table  at  Herne  Hill,  the  Keats  part  had  never  attracted 
me,  and  always  puzzled,  I had  got  quite  enough  perception 
of  his  natural  j^ower,  and  felt  enough  regret  for  his  death, 
to  make  me  wait  with  reverence  on  his  guardian  friend.  I 
forget  exactly  Avhere  Mr.  Severn  lived  at  that  time,  but  his 
door  was  at  the  right  of  the  lauding  at  the  top  of  a long  flight 
of  squarely  reverting  stair, — broad,  to  about  the  span  of  an 
English  lane  that  would  allow  two  carts  to  pass  ; and  broad- 
stepped  also,  its  gentle  incline  attained  by  some  three  inches 
of  fall  to  a foot  of  flat.  Up  this  I was  advancing  slowly, — it 
being  forbidden  ms  ever  to  strain  breath, — and  Avas  Avithiu 
eighteen  or  twenty  steps  of  Mr.  Severn’s  door,  Avhen  it  opened, 
and  two  gentlemen  came  out,  closed  it  behind  them  Avith  an 
expression  of  excluding  the  Avoiid  for  evermore  from  that  side 
of  the  house,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs  to  meet  me, 
liolding  to  my  left.  One  Avas  a rather  short,  rubicund,  se- 
renely beaming  person  ; the  other,  not  much  taller,  but  paler, 
Avith  a beautifully  modelled  forehead,  and  extremely  vivid, 
though  kind,  dark  eyes. 

They  looked  hard  at  me  as  they  passed,  but  in  my  usual 
shyness,  and  also  because  I have  held  it  a first  principle  of 
manners  not  to  waylay  people  ; — above  all,  not  to  stop  them 
Avhen  they  are  going  out,  I made  no  sign,  and  leaving  them 
to  descend  the  reverting  stair  in  peace,  climbed,  at  still  slack- 
ening pace,  the  remaining  steps  to  Mr.  Severn’s  door,  and  left 


* I have  authorized  the  republicatioii  of  this  book  in  its  original  text 
and  form,  chietij  for  the  sake  of  its  clear,  and  the  reader  will  Und, 
wholly  incontrovertible,  statement  of  the  deadly  influence  of  Benais- 
sauce  Theology  on  the  Arts  in  Italy,  and  on  the  religion  of  the  World, 


222 


PR^^TERITA. 


my  card  and  letter  of  introduction  with  the  servant,  who  told  me 
he  had  just  gone  out.  His  dark-eyed  companion  was  George 
Eichmond,  to  whom,  also,  Acland  had  given  me  a letter. 
Both  Mr.  Severn  and  he  came  immediately  to  see  us.  M}* 
father  and  mother’s  quiet  out-of-the-wayness  at  first  interest- 
ed, soon  pleased,  and  at  last  won  them,  so  completel}",  that 
before  Christmas  came,  out  of  all  people  in  Eome  they  chose 
us  to  eat  their  Christmas  dinner  vdth.  Much  more  for  my 
father’s  sake  and  mother’s,  than  mine  ; not  that  they  w^ere  un- 
interested in  me  also,  but  as  my  ways  of  out-of-the-wayness 
were  by  no  means  quiet,  but  perpetually  firing  up  under  their 
feet  in  little  splutters  and  spitfires  of  the  most  appalling 
heresy  ; and  those  not  only  troublesome  in  immediate  cackle, 
but  carried  out  into  steady,  and  not  always  refutable,  objec- 
tion to  nearly  everything  sacred  in  their  sight,  of  the  auto- 
cratic masters  and  authentic  splendors  of  Eome,  their  di- 
alogues with  me  were  apt  to  resolve  themselves  into  delicate 
disguises  of  necessary  reproof ; and  even  with  my  father  and 
mother,  into  consultation  as  to  what  was  best  to  be  done  to 
bring  me  to  anything  like  a right  mind.  The  old  people’s  con- 
fidence in  them  had  been  unbounded  from  the  first,  in  conse- 
quence of  Mr.  Severn’s  having  said  to  Mr.  Eichmond  when  they 
met  me  on  the  stairs,  “What  a poetical  countenance!” — and 
my  recently  fanatical  misbehavior  in  the  affair  of  the  Harlech, 
coupled  with  my  now  irrepressible  impertinences  to  Eaphael 
and  Domenichino,  began  to  give  me  in  my  parents’  eyes 
something  of  the  distant  aspect  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

The  weight  of  adverse  authority  which  I had  thus  to  sup- 
port was  soon  increased  by  the  zeal  of  Mr.  Eichmond’s  young- 
er brother,  Tom,  whom  I found,  on  the  first  occasion  of  my 
visiting  them  in  their  common  studio,  eagerly  painting  a .torso 
with  shadows  of  smalt  blue,  which,  it  was  explained  to  me, 
w^ere  afterward  to  be  glazed  so  as  to  change  into  the  flesh 
color  of  Titian.  As  I did  not  at  that  time  see  an}dhing  par- 
ticular in  the  flesh  color  of  Titian,  and  did  not  see  the  shght- 
est  probability — if  there  were — of  its  being  imitable  by  that 
process,  here  wvas  at  once  another  chasm  of  separation  opened 
between  my  friends  and  me,  virtually  never  closed  to  the 


HOME. 


223 


end  of  time  ; and  in  its  immediately  volcanic  effect,  decisive  of 
the  manner  in  which  I spent  the  rest  of  my  time  in  Rome  and 
Italy.  For,  making  up  my  mind  thenceforward  that  the  sen- 
timent of  Raphael  and  tints  of  Titian  were  alike  bej^ond  me, 
if  not  wholly  out  of  my  way  ; and  that  the  sculpture  galleries 
of  the  Vatican  were  mere  bewilderment  and  worry,  I took  the 
bit  in  my  teeth,  and  proceeded  to  sketch  what  I could  find  in 
Rome  to  represent  in  my  own  v/ay,  bringing  in  primarity, — 
by  way  of  defiance  to  Raphael,  Titian,  and  the  Apollo  Belvi- 
dere  all  in  one, — a careful  study  of  old  clothes  hanging  out  of 
old  windows  in  the  Jews’  quarter. 

The  gauntlet  being  thus  thrown,  the  two  Mr.  Richmonds 
and  my  father  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  amuse  themselves 
as  best  they  could  wdth  my  unclassical  efforts,  not,  taken  on 
my  own  terms,  without  interest.  I did  the  best  I could  for 
the  Forum,  in  a careful  general  view  ; a study  of  the  aque- 
ducts of  the  Cainpagna  from  St.  John  Lateran,  and  of  the 
Aventine  from  the  Ponte  Rotto,  were  extremely  pleasant  to 
most  beholders ; and  at  last  even  Mr.  Richmond  was  so  far 
mollified  as  to  ask  me  to  draw  the  street  of  the  Trinita  di 
Monte  for  him,  with  which  he  had  many  ha23py  associations. 
There  w^as  another  practical  chance  for  me  in  life  at  this  crisis, 
— I might  have  made  the  most  precious  records  of  all  the 
cities  in  Italy.  But  all  my  chances  of  being  anything  but 
what  I am  were  thrown  a\vay,  or  broken  short,  one  after 
another.  An  entirely"  mocking  and  mirage-colored  one,  as  it 
seemed  then,  yet  became,  many  a year  later,  a great  and  beau- 
tiful influence  on  my  life. 

Between  my  Protestantism  and,  as  Tom  Richmond  rightly 
called  it,  Proutism,  I had  now  abjured  Roman  shows  alto- 
gether, and  was  equally  rude  and  restive,  whether  I was  asked 
to  go  to  a church,  a palace,  or  a gallery, — when  papa  and 
mamma  began  to  perceive  some  dawn  of  docility  in  me  about 
going  to  hear  musical  church  services.  This  they  naturally 
attributed  to  my  native  taste  for  Gregorian  chants,  and  my 
increasing  aptitude  for  musical  composition.  But  the  fact 
was,  that  at  services  of  this  kind  there  was  always  a chance  of 
seeing,  at  intervals,  above  the  bowed  heads  of  the  Italian 


224: 


PB^TERITA. 


crowd,  for  an  instant  or  two  before  she  also  stooped — or 
sometimes,  eminent  in  her  grace  above  a stunted  group  of 
them, — a fair  English  girl,  who  was  not  only  the  admitted 
Queen  of  beauty  in  the  English  circle  of  that  winter  in  Eome, 
but  v/as  so,  in  the  kind  of  beauty  which  I had  only  hitherto 
dreamed  of  as  possible,  but  never  yet  seen  living  : statuesque 
severity  with  womanly  sweetness  joined.  I don’t  think  I ever 
succeeded  in  getting  nearer  than  within  fifty  yards  of  her; 
but  she  was  the  light  and  solace  of  all  the  Eoman  winter  to 
me,  in  the  mere  chance  glimpses  of  her  far  away,  and  the  hope 
of  them. 

Meantime,  my  father,  to  whom  our  Roman  physician  had 
given  an  encouraging  report  of  me,  recovered  some  of  his 
natural  cheerfulness,  and  enjoyed,  with  his  niece,  who  if  not 
an  enthusiastic,  was  an  indefatigable  and  attentive  sight- 
seeker  and  seer,  everything  that  Rome  had  to  show;  the 
musical  festas  especially,  whenever  his  cross-grained  boy  con- 
sented, for  Miss  Tollemache’s  secret  sake,  to  go  with  him  ; 
while  Mr.  Severn  and  George  Richmond  became  every  day 
more  kindly — nor,  w'e  felt,  without  real  pleasure  to  them- 
selves— helpful  to  us  all.  No  habitue  of  the  brightest  circles 
of  present  London  society  will  doubt  the  privilege  we  had  in 
better  and  better  knowing  George  Richmond.  But  there  is 
nothing  in  any  circle  that  ever  I saw  or  heard  of,  like  what 
Mr.  Joseph  Severn  then  was  in  Rome.  He  understood  every- 
body, native  and  foreign,  civil  and  ecclesiastic,  in  what  was 
nicest  in  them,  and  never  saw  anything  else  than  the  nicest ; 
or  saw  what  other  people  got  angry  about  as  only  a humoious 
part  of  the  nature  of  things.  It  w^as  the  nature  of  things 
that  the  Pope  should  be  at  St.  Peter’s,  and  the  beggars  on 
the  Pincian  steps.  He  forgave  the  Pope  his  papacy,  rever- 
enced the  beggar’s  beard,  and  felt  that  alike  the  steps  of  the 
Pincian,  and  the  Araceli,  and  the  Lateran,  and  the  Capitol, 
led  to  heaven,  and  everybody  was  going  up,  somehow  ; but 
might  be  happy  where  they  were  in  the  meantime.  Lightly 
sagacious,  lovingly  humorous,  daintily  sentimental,  he  was  in 
council  with  the  cardinals  to-day,  and  at  picnic  in  Campagna 
with  the  brightest  English  belles  to-morrow ; and  caught  the 


CUM.K 


225 


hearts  of  all  in  tlie  golden  net  of  his  good  will  and  good  un- 
derstanding, as  if  life  were  but  for  him  the  rippling  chant  of 
his  favorite  song, — 


Gente,  e qui  Fuccellatore.” 


CHAPTER  III 


CUM^. 

In  my  needful  and  fixed  resolve  to  set  the  facts  down  con- 
tinuously, leaving  the  reader  to  his  refiections  on  them,  I am 
slipping  a little  too  fast  over  the  surfaces  of  things  ; and  it 
becomes  at  this  point  desirable  that  I should  know,  or  at  least 
try  to  guess,  something  of  what  the  reader’s  reflections  are! 
and  whether  in  the  main  he  is  getting  at  the  sense  of  the  facts 
I tell  him. 

Does  he  think  me  a lucky  or  unlucky  youth,  I wonder? 
Commendable,  on  the  whole,  and  exemplary — or  the  reverse? 
Of  promising  gifts — or  merely  glitter  of  morning,  to  pass  at 
noon  ? I ask  him  at  this  point,  because  several  letters  from 
pleased  acquaintances  have  announced  to  me,  of  late,  that 
they  have  obtained  quite  new  lights  upon  my  character  from 
these  jottings,  and  like  me  much  better  than  they  ever  did 
before.  Which  was  not  the  least  the  effect  I intended  to  pro- 
duce on  them  ; and  which  moreover  is  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  effect  on  my  own  mind  of  meeting  myself,  by  turning 
back,  face  to  face. 

On  the  contrary,  I suffer  great  pain,  and  shame,  in  perceiv- 
ing 'vvith  better  knowledge  the  little  that  I was,  and  the  much 
that  I lost — of  time,  cliance,  and — duty,  (a  duty  missed  is  the 
worst  of  loss)  ; and  I cannot  in  the  least  understand  what  iny 
acquaintances  have  found,  in  anything  hitherto  told  them  of 
my  childhood,  more  amiable  than  they  might  have  guessed  of 
the  author  of  “Time  and  Tide,”  or  “ Unto  This  Last.”  The 
real  fact  being,  whatever  they  make  of  it,  that  hitherto,  and 
for  a year  or  two  on,  yet,  I was  simply  a little  floppy  and 
15 


226 


PBJSTERITA, 


soppy  tadpole, — little  more  than  a stomacli  with  a tail  to  it,  \ 
flattening  and  wriggling  itself  up  the  crystal  ripples  and  in  J 
the  pure  sands  of  the  spring-head  of  youth. 

But  there  were  always  good  eyes  in  me,  and  a good  habit 
of  keeping  head  up  stream  ; and  now  the  time  was  coming 
when  I began  to  think  about  helping  princesses  by  fetching 
up  their  balls  from  the  bottom  ; when  I got  a sudden  glimpse 
of  myself  in  the  true  shape  of  me,  extremely  startling  and 
discouraging : — here,  in  Rome  it  was,  toward  the  Christmas 
time. 

Among  the  living  Roman  arts  of  which  polite  travellers 
were  expected  to  carry  specimens  home  with  them,  one  of 
the  prettiest  used  to  be  the  cutting  cameos  out  of  pink  shells. 

We  bought,  according  to  custom,  some  coquillage  of  Gods 
and  Graces  ; but  the  cameo  cutters  were  also  skilful  in  mortal 
portraiture,  and  papa  and  mamma,  still  expectant  of  my  future 
greatness,  resolved  to  have  me  carved  in  cameo. 

I had  always  been  content  enough  with  my  front  face  in  the 
glass,  and  had  never  thought  of  contriving  vision  of  the  pro- 
file. The  cameo  finished,  I saw  at  a glance  to  be  well  cut ; 
but  the  image  it  gave  of  me  was  not  to  my  mind.  I did  not 
analyze  its  elements  at  the  time,  but  should  now  describe  it 
as  a George  the  Third’s  penny,  with  a halfpenny  worth  of 
George  the  Fourth,  the  pride  of  Amurath  the  Fifth,  and  the 
temper  of  eight  little  Lucifers  in  a swept  lodging. 

Now  I knew  myself  proud ; yes,  and  of  late,  sullen  ; but  did 
not  in  the  least  recognize  pride  or  sulkiness  for  leading  faults 
of  my  nature.  On  the  contrary,  I knew  myself  wholly  rever- 
ent to  all  real  greatness,  and  wholly  good-humored — when  I 
got  my  own  way.  What  more  can  you  expect  of  average  boy, 
or  beast  ? 

And  it  seemed  hard  to  me  that  only  the  excrescent  faults, 
and  by  no  means  the  constant  capacities,  should  be  set  forth, 
carved  by  the  petty  justice  of  the  practical  cameo.  Con- 
cerning which,  as  also  other  later  portraits  of  me,  I will  be 
thus  far  proud  as  to  tell  the  disappointed  spectator,  once  for 
all,  that  the  main  good  of  my  face,  as  of  my  life,  is  in  the 
eyes, — and  only  in  those,  seen  near  ; that  a very  dear  and 


CUMjE. 


227 


wise  Frencli  friend  also  told  me,  a long  while  after  this,  that 
the  lips,  though  not  Apolline,  were  kind : the  George  the 
Third  and  Fourth  character  I recognize  very  definitely  among 
my  people,  as  already  noticed  in  my  cousin  George  of  Croy- 
don ; and  of  the  shape  of  head,  fore  and  aft,  I have  my  own 
opinions,  but  do  not  think  it  time,  yet,  to  tell  them. 

I think  it,  however,  quite  time  to  say  a little  more  fully, 
not  only  what  happened  to  me,  now  of  age,  but  what  was  in 
mo  : to  which  end  I permit  a passage  or  two  out  of  my  diary, 
written  for  the  first  time  this  year  wholly  for  my  own  use, 
and  note  of  things  I saw  and  thought ; and  neither  to  please 
papa,  nor  to  be  printed, — with  corrections, — b}'  IVIi*.  Harri- 
son. 

1 see,  indeed,  in  turning  the  old  leaves,  that  I have  been 
a little  too  morose  in  my  record  of  impressions  on  the 
Eiviera.  Here  is  a page  more  pleasant,  giving  first  sight  of  a 
place  afterward  much  important  in  my  life — the  promontory 
of  Sestri  di  Levan te. 

“ Sestri,  Nov.  4th  (1840).  Very  wet  all  morning  ; merely 
able  to  get  the  four  miles  to  this  most  lovely  village,  the 
clouds  drifting  like  smoke  from  the  hills,  and  hanging  in 
wreaths  about  tlie  white  churches  on  their  woody  slopes. 
Kept  in  hero  till  three,  then  the  clouds  broke,  and  we  got  up 
the  woody  promontory  that  overhangs  the  village.  The 
clouds  were  rising  gradually  from  the  Apennines,  fragments 
entangled  here  and  there  in  the  ravines  catching  the  level 
sunlight  like  so  many  tongues  of  fire ; the  dark  blue  outline 
of  the  hills  clear  as  crystal  against  a pale  distant  purity  of 
green  sky,  the  sun  touching  here  and  there  upon  their  turfy 
precipices,  and  the  white,  square  villages  along  the  gulf 
gleaming  like  silver  to  the  northwest; — a mass  of  higher 
mountain,  plunging  down  into  broad  valleys  dark  with  olive, 
their  summits  at  first  gray  with  rain,  then  deep  blue  with  fij^- 
ing  showers — the  sun  suddenly  catching  the  near  woods  at 
their  base,  already  colored  exquisitely  by  the  autumn,  wdth 
such  a burst  of  robing, — penetrating,  glow  as  Turner  only 
could  even  imagine,  set  off  by  the  gray  storm  behind.  To 
Che  south,  an  expanse  of  sea,  varied  by  refiection  of  white 


22S 


PR^TERITA. 


Alpine  cloud,  and  delicate  lines  of  most  pure  blue,  tlie  low  sun 
sending  its  line  of  light — forty  miles  long — from  the  horizon  ; 
the  surges  dashing  far  below  against  rocks  of  black  marble, 
and  lines  of  foam  drifting  back  with  the  current  into  the 
open  sea.  Overhead,  a group  of  dark  Italian  pine  and  ever- 
green oak,  with  such  lovely  ground  about  their  roots  as  we 
have  in  the  best  bits  of  the  islands  of  Derwentwater.  This 
continued  till  near  sunset,  when  a tall  double  rainbow  rose  to 
the  east  over  the  fiery  woods,  and  as  tlie  sun  sank,  the  storm 
of  falling  rain  on  the  mountains  became  suddenly  purple— 
nearly  crimson  ; the  rainbow,  its  hues  scarcely  traceable,  one 
broad  belt  of  crimson,  the  clouds  above  all  fire.  The  whole 
scene  such  as  can  only  come  once  or  twice  in  a lifetime.” 

I see  that  we  got  to  Rome  on  a Saturday,  November  28th. 
The  actual  first  entry  next  morning  is,  perhaps,  worth  keep- 
ing : 

“Nov.  29th,  Sunday.  A great  fuss  about  Pope  officiating 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel — Advent  Sunday.  Got  into  a crowd, 
and  made  myself  very  uncomfortable  for  nothing : no  music 
wortli  hearing,  a little  mummery  with  Pope  and  dirty  car- 
dinals. Outside  and  west  facade  of  St.  Peter’s  certainly  very 
fine  : the  inside  would  make  a nice  ball-room,  but  is  good 
for  notliing  else.” 

“Nov.  30th.  Drove  up  to  the  Capitol — a filthy,  melain 
’I  choly-looking,  rubbish}'’  place ; and  down  to  the  Forum, 
which  is  certainly  a very  good  sul>ject ; and  then  a little  far- 
^ ther  on,  among  quantities  of  bricks  and  rubbish,  till  I was 
quite  sick.” 

V/ith  disgust,  I meant ; but  from  December  20th  to  25th  I 
had  a qualm  of  real  fever,  which  it  was  a wonder  came  to  no 
worse.  On  the  30th  I am  afoot  again  ; thus  : — 

“I  have  been  walking  backward  and  forward  on  the 
Pincian,  being  unable  to  do  anything  else  since  this  con- 
founded illness,  and  trying  to  find  out  why  every  imaginable 
delight  palls  so  very  rapidly  on  even  the  keenest  feelings.  I 
had  all  Rome  before  me ; towers,  cupolas,  cypresses,  and 
palaces  mingled  in  every  possible  grouping  ; a light  Decem- 
berish  mist,  mixed  with  the  slightest  vestige  of  wood  smoke, 


CUM^. 


229 


hovering  between  the  distances,  and  giving  beautiful  gray 
outlines  of  every  form  between  the  eye  and  the  sun  ; and 
over  the  rich  evergreen  oaks  of  the  Borghese  gardens,  a 
range  of  Apennine,  with  one  principal  pyramid  of  pure  snow, 
like  a piece  of  sudden  comet-light  fallen  on  the  earth.  It  was 
not  like  moonlight,  nor  like  sunlight,  but  as  soft  as  the  one, 
and  as  powerful  as  the  other.  And  yet,  with  all  this  around 
me,  I could  not  feel  it.  I was  as  tired  of  my  walk,  and  as 
glad  when  I thought  I had  done  duty,  as  ever  on  the  Norwood 
ro-xl.” 

There  was  a girl  walking  up  and  down  with  some  chil- 
dren, her  light  cap  prettily  set  on  very  well  dressed  hair:  of 
whose  country  I had  no  doubt ; long  before  I heard  her 
complain  to  one  of  her  charges,  who  was  jabbering  English  as 
fast  as  the  fountain  tinkled  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
“Qu’elle  n’en  comprenait  pas  un  mot.”  This  girl  after  two 
or  three  turns  sat  down  beside  another  bonne.  There  they 
sate  laughing  and  chattering,  with  the  expression  of  perfect 
happiness  on  their  faces,  thinking  no  more  of  the  Alpine 
heights  behind  them,  or  the  city  beneath  them,  than  of  Con- 
stantinople ; while  I,  with  every  feeling  raised,  I should  think 
to  a great  degree  above  theirs,  was  in  a state  of  actually 
severe  mental  pain,  because  I could  perceive  materials  of 
the  highest  pleasure  around  me,  and  felt  the  time  hang  heavy 
on  my  hands.  Here  is  the  pride,  you  perceive,  good  reader, 
and  the  sullens — dum  pituita  molestat — both  plain  enough. 
But  it  is  no  lofty  pride  in  which  I say  my  feelings'’  w^ere 
raised  above  the  French  bonne's.  Very  solemnly,  I did  not 
think  myself  a better  creature  than  she,  nor  so  good  ; but 
only  I knew  there  was  a link  between  far  Soracte  and  me, — 
najg  even  between  unseen  Voltur  and  me, — which  was  not 
between  her  and  them ; and  meant  a wider,  earthly,  if  not 
heavenly,  horizon,  under  the  birth-star. 

Meantime,  beneath  the  hill,  my  mother  knitted,  as  cjuietly 
as  if  she  had  been  at  home,  in  the  corner  of  the  great  Roman 
room  in  which  she  cared  for  nothing  but  the  cleanliness,  as 
distinguishing  it  from  the  accommodation  of  provincial  inns ; 
and  the  days  turned,  and  it  was  time  to  think  of  the  journey 


230 


PRJSTERITA. 


to  Naples,  before  any  of  us  were  tired  of  Kome.  And  simple 
cousin  Mary,  whom  I never  condescended  to  ask  for  either 
sympathy  or  opinion,  was  really  making  better  use  of  her 
Homan  days  than  any  of  us.  She  was  a sound,  plain  musi- 
cian ; (having  been  finished  by  Moscheles) ; attended  to  the 
church  orchestras  carefully,  read  her  guide-books  accurately, 
knew  always  where  she  was,  and  in  her  sincere  religion,  con- 
quered her  early  Puritanism  to  the  point  of  reverently  visit- 
ing St.  Paul’s  grave  and  St.  Cecilia’s  house,  and  at  last  going 
up  the  Scala  Santa  on  her  knees,  like  any  good  girl  of  Kome. 

So  passed  the  days,  till  there  was  spring  sunshine  in  the 
air  as  we  climbed  the  Alban  mount,  and  went  down  into  the  ra- 
vine under  La  Kiccia,  afterward  described  in  perhaps  the 
oftenest  quoted  passage  of  ‘^Modern  Painters.”  The  diary 
says  : A hollow  with  another  village  on  the  hill  opposite,  a 

most  elegant  and  finished  group  of  church  tower  and  roof, 
descending  by  delicate  upright  sprigs^  of  tree  into  a dark 
rich-toned  depth  of  ravine,  out  of  which  rose  nearer,  and  clear 
against  its  shade,  a gray  wall  of  rock,  an  absolute  miracle  for 
blending  of  bright  lichenous  color.” 

With  a few  sentences  more,  to  similar  effect,  and  then  a bit 
of  Pontine  marsh  description,  dwelling  much  on  the  moving 
points  of  the  “ black  cattle,  ■white  gulls,  black,  bristly  high- 
bred swine,  and  birds  of  all  sorts,  w^aders  and  dippers  innu- 
merable.” It  is  very  interesting,  at  least  to  myself,  to  find 
how,  so  early  as  this,  while  I never  drew  anything  but  in 
pencil  outline,  I saw  everything  first  in  color,  as  it  ought  to 
be  seen. 

I must  give  room  to  the  detail  of  the  day  from  Mola  to 
Naples,  because  it  shows,  to  proof  enough,  the  constant  watch- 
fulness upon  which  the  statements  in  “ Modern  Painters  ” | 
were  afterward  founded,  though  neither  that  nor  any  other 
book  had  yet  been  dreamed  of,  and  I wrote  only  to  keep  ; 
memory  of  things  seen,  for  what  good  might  come  of  the 
memory  anyhow. 


* I have  substituted  this  word  for  a sketch  like  the  end  of  a broom, 
which  would  convey  no  idea  to  anybody  but  myself. 


CUMM. 


231 


“ Naples,  January  9tli  (1841).  Dressed  yesterday  at  Mola 
by  a window  commanding  a misty  sunrise  over  the  sea — a 
grove  of  oranges  sloping  down  to  the  beach,  flushed  with  its 
light ; Gaeta  opposite,  glittering  along  its  promontory.  Ran 
out  to  terrace  at  side  of  the  house,  a leaden  bit  of  roof,  with 
pots  of  orange  and  Indian  fig.  There  was  a range  of  Skiddaw- 
like mountains  rising  from  the  shore,  the  ravines  just  like 
those  of  Saddleback,  or  the  west  side  of  Skiddaw  ; the  higher 
parts  bright  with  fresh-fallen  snow  ; the  highest,  misty  with 
a touch  of  soft  white,  swift  * cloud.  Nearer,  they  softened 
into  green,  bare  masses  of  hill,  like  Malvern,  but  with  their 
tops  covered  with  olives  and  lines  of  vine, — the  village  of  Mola 
showing  its  white  walls  and  level  roofs  above  the  olives,  with 
a breath  of  blue  smoke  floating  above  them,  and  a long  range 
of  distant  hills  running  out  into  the  sea  beyond.  The  air  was 
fresh,  and  yet  so  pure  and  soft,  and  so  full  of  perfume  from 
the  orange  trees  below  the  terrace,  that  it  seemed  more  like 
an  early  summer  morning  than  January.  It  got  soon  threat- 
ening, however,  though  the  sun  kept  with  us  as  we  drove 
through  the  village  ; — confined  streets,  but  bright  and  varied, 
down  to  the  shore,  and  then  under  the  slopes  of  the  snowy 
precipice,  now  thoroughly  dazzling  with  the  risen  sun,  and  be- 
' tween  hedges  of  tall  myrtle,  into  the  plain  of  Garigliano.  A 
heavy  rain-cloud  raced  *j-  us  the  ten  miles,  and  stooped  over 
us,  stealing  the  blue  sky  inch  by  inch,  till  it  had  left  only  a 
strip  of  amber-blue  J behind  the  Apennines,  the  near  hills 
thrown  into  deep  dark  purple  shade,  the  snow  behind  them, 
first  blazing — the  only  strong  light  in  the  picture — then  in 
shade,  dark  against  the  pure  sky  ; the  gray  above,  warm  and 
lurid — a little  w’ashed  with  rain  in  parts ; below,  a copse  of 
wdllow  coming  against  the  dark  purples,  nearly  pure  Indian 


* Note  tlie  instatit  marking  the  'pace  of  the  cloud, — the  work  of  Coeli 
Enarrant  having  been  begun  practically  years  before  this.  See  beloW 
also  of  the  rain-cloud. 

I This  distinct  approach,  or  chase,  by  rain-cloud  is  opposed,  ic  my 
last  lectures  on  sky,  to  the  (lathering  of  rain-cloud  all  through  the  air, 
under  the  influence  of  plague  wind. 

f Palest  transparent  blue  passing  into  gold. 


232 


PB^TEBITA, 


yellow,  a little  touched  with  red.  Then  came  a lovely  bit  of 
aqueduct,  with  coats  of  shattered  mosaic,  the  hills  seen 
through  its  arches,  and  pieces  of  bright  green  meadow  mix- 
ing with  the  yellov/  of  the  willows.  At  Capua,  detained  by  a 
rascally  Dogana, — we  had  one  at  Garigliano  as  well,  howling 
beggars  all  about  (Caffe  del  Gigiio  d’Oro),  one  ape  of  a creat- 
ure clinging  with  its  legs  about  another’s  neck,  and  chopping 
its  jaws  with  its  fists.  Hence  a dead  flat  of  vines  hanging 
from  elms,  and  road  perfectly  straight,  and  cut  utterly  up  by 
a deluge  of  rain.  I was  quite  tired  as  it  grew  dark,  frag- 
ments of  blue  and  amber  sky  showing  through  colossal  thun- 
der clouds,  and  two  or  three  pure  stars  laboring  among  the 
dark  masses.  It  lightened  fast  as  we  got  into  Naples,  and 
w'e  were  stopped  again,  first  by  Dogana,  and  then  at  passport 
office,  till  I lost  temper  and  patience,  and  could  have  cried 
like  a girl,  for  I was  quite  wearied  with  the  bad  roads,  and 
disappointed  with  the  approach  to  Naples,  and  cold.  I could 
not  help  wondering  at  this.  How  little  could  I have  imag- 
ined, sitting  in  my  home  corner,  yearning  for  a glance  of  the 
hill  snow,  or  the  orange  leaf,  that  I should,  at  entering  Naples, 
be  as  thoroughly  out  of  humor  as  ever  after  a monotonous 
day  in  London.  More  so  ! ” 

For  full  ten  years,  since  earliest  geologic  reading,  I had 
thoroughly  known  the  structure  and  present  look  of  Vesuvius 
and  Monte  Somma  ; nor  had  “ Friendship’s  Offering  ” and 
“ Forget-me-not,”  in  the  days  of  the  Bandit  Leoni,  left  me 
without  useful  notions  of  the  Bay  of  Naples.  But  the  beau- 
tiful forms  of  Monte  St.  Angelo  and  Capri  were  new  to  me,, 
and  the  first  feeling  of  being  in  the  presence  of  the  power 
and  mystery  of  the  under  earth,  unspeakably  solemn  ; though 
Vesuvius  was  virtually  in  repose,  and  the  slow'  changes  in  the 
heaped  white  cloud  above  the  crater  were  only  like  those  of  a 
thunder  cloud. 

The  first  sight  of  the  Alps  had  been  to  me  as  a direct  rev- 
elation of  the  benevolent  wull  in  creation.  Long  since,  in  the 
volcanic  powers  of  destruction,  I had  been  taught  by  Homer, 
and  further  forced  by  my  own  reason,  to  see,  if  not  the  per- 
sonality of  an  Evil  Spirit,  at  all  events  the  permitted  sym- 


‘CUMM. 


23.3 


bol  of  evil,  unredeemed  ; wholly  distinct  from  the  conditions 
of  storm,  or  heat,  or  frost,  on  which  the  healthy  courses  of 
organic  life  depended.  In  the  same  literal  way  in  which  the 
snows  and  Alpine  roses  of  Lauterbrunnen  were  visible  Par- 
adise, here,  in  tlie  valley  of  ashes  and  throat  of  lava,  were  vis- 
ible Heli.  If  thus  in  the  natural,  how  else  should  it  be  in 
the  spiritual,  world? 

I had  never  yet  read  a line  of  Dante.  From  the  moment 
when  I knew  the  words, — 

“It  now  is  evening  there,  where  buried  lies 
The  body  in  which  I cast  a sliade,  removed 
To  Naples  from  Briindusium’s  wall,” 

not  Naples  onty,  but  Italy,  became  forever  flushed  with  the 
sacred  twilight  of  them.  But  even  now,  what  pieces  I knew 
of  Virgil,  in  that  kind,  became  all  at  once  true,  when  I saw 
the  birdless  lake  ; for  me  also,  the  voice  of  it  had  teaching 
which  was  to  be  practically  a warning  law  of  future  life  : — 

“ Nec  te 

Nequidquam  lucis  Hecate  prsefecit  Avernis.” 

The  legends  became  true, — began  to  come  true,  I should 
have  said, — trains  of  thought  now  first  rising  which  did  not 
take  clear  current  till  forty  years  afterward  ; and  in  this  first 
trickling,  sorrowful  in  disappointment,  “There  were  such 
places  then,  and  Sybils  did  live  in  them  ! — but  is  this  all  ? ” 

Frightful  enough,  yes,  the  spasmodic  ground— the  boiling- 
sulphur  lake— the  Dog’s  grotto  with  its  floor  a foot  deep  in 
poisoned  air  that  could  be  stirred  with  the  hand.  Awful,  but 
also  for  the  Delphi  of  Italy,  ignoble.  And  all  that  was  fairest 
in  the  w^hole  sweep  of  isle  and  sea,  I saw,  as  was  already  my 
wont,  with  precise  note  of  its  faults. 

The  common  English  traveller,  if  he  can  gather  a black 
bunch  of  grapes  with  his  own  fingers,  and  have  his  bottle  of 
Falernian  brought  him  by  a girl  with  black  eyes,  asks  no 
more  of  this  world,  nor  the  next  ; and  declares  Naples  a 
Paradise,  But  I knew,  from  the  first  moment  when  my  foot 
furrowed  volcanic  ashes,  that  no  mountain  form  or  color  could 


234 


PB^TEELTA, 


exist  in  perfection  wlien  everything  was  made  of  scoria,  and 
that  blue  sea  was  to  be  little  boasted  if  it  broke  on  black 
sand.  And  I saw  also,  with  really  wise  anger,  the  horror  of 
neglect  in  the  governing  power,  which  Mr.  Gladstone  found, 
forsooth,  in  the  Neapolitan  prisons  ! but  which  neither  he 
nor  any  other  Englishman,  so  far  as  I know,'  except  Byron 
and  I,  saw  to  have  made  the  Apennines  one  prison  wall,  and 
all  the  modern  life  of  Italy  one  captivity  of  shame  and  crime  ; 
alike  against  the  honor  of  her  ancestors,  and  the  kindness  of 
her  God. 

With  these  strong  insights  into  the  faults  of  others,  there 
came  also  at  Naples,  I am  thankful  to  say,  some  stroke  of 
volcanic  lightning  on  my  own.  Tbe  sense  of  the  uselessness 
of  all  Naples  and  its  gulf  to  me,  in  my  then  state  of  illness 
and  gloom,  was  borne  in  upon  me  with  reproach  : the  chrysa- 
lid envelope  began  to  tear  itself  open  here  and  there  to  some 
purpose,  and  I bade  farewell  to  the  last  outlines  of  Monte  St. 
Angelo  as  they  faded  in  the  south,  with  dim  notions  of  better- 
ing my  ways  in  future. 

At  Mola  di  Gaeta  we  stopped  a whole  day  that  I might  go 
back  to  draw  the  castle  of  Itri.  It  was  hinted  darkly  to  us 
that  Itri  was  of  no  good  repute  ; we  disdained  all  imputa- 
tions on  such  a lovely  place,  and  drove  back  there  for  a day’s 
rambling.  While  I drew,  my  mother  and  Mary  went  at  their 
own  sweet  wills  up  and  down  ; Maiy  had  by  this  time,  at 
school  and  on  the  road,  made  herself  mistress  of  sjdlables 
enough  to  express  some  sympathy  with  any  contadina  who 
wore  a pretty  cap,  or  carried  a pretty  baby  ; and,  the  appear- 
ance of  English  women  being  rare  at  Itri,  the  contadine  were 
])leased,  and  everything  that  was  amiable  to  mamma  and 
Mary.  I made  an  excellent  sketch,  and  we  returned  in  exulta- 
tion to  the  orange-groves  of  Mola.  AVe  afterward  heard  that 
the  entire  population  of  Itri  consisted  of  banditti,  and  never 
troubled  ourselves  about  banditti  any  more. 

We  stopped  at  Albano  for  the  Sunday,  and  I went  out  in 
tlie  morning  for  a walk  through  its  ilex  groves  with  my  father 
and  mother  and  Mary.  For  some  time  back,  the  little  cough 
briuging  blood  had  not  troubled  me,  and  I had  been  taking 


CUM^, 


235 


longer  walks  and  otherwise  counting  on  comparative  safety, 
when  here  suddenly,  in  the  gentle  morning  saunter  through 
the  shade,  the  cough  came  back — with  a little  darker  stain  on 
the  handkerchief  than  usual.  I sat  down  on  a bank  by  the 
roadside,  and  my  father’s  face  w^as  very  grave. 

We  got  quietly  back  to  the  inn,  where  he  found  some  sort 
of  light  carriole  disposable,  and  set  out,  himself,  to  fetch  the 
doctor  from  Rome. 

It  has  alv^^ays  been  one  of  the  great  shadows  of  thought  to 
me,  to  fancy  my  father’s  feelings  as  he  was  driven  that  day 
those  eighteen  miles  across  the  Campagna. 

Good  Dr.  Gloag  comforted  him,  and  returned  wdth  him. 
But  there  was  nothing  new  to  be  done,  nor  said.  Such 
chance  attack  was  natural  in  the  spring,  he  said,  only  I must 
be  cautious  for  a while.  My  mother  never  lost  her  courage 
for  an  instant.  Next  day  we  w^ent  on  to  Rome,  and  it  was  the 
last  time  the  cougli  ever  troubled  me. 

The  weather  -was  tine  at  Easter,  and  I saw  the  Benediction, 
and  sate  in  the  open  air  of  twilight  opposite  the  castle  of  St. 
Angelo,  and  saw  the  dome-linea kindle  on  St.  Peter’s,  and  the 
castle  veil  the  sky  with  flying  fire.  Bearing  with  me  from 
that  last  night  in  Rome  many  tlioughts  that  ripened  slowly 
afterward,  cliiefly  convincing  me  how  guiltily  and  meanly 
dead  the  Protestant  mind  was  to  the  whole  meaning  and  end 
of  medimval  Church  splendor  ; and  how  meanly  and  guiltily 
dead  the  existing  Catholic  mind  was,  to  the  course  by  wdiich 
to  recicii  the  Italian  soul,  instead  of  its  eyes. 

Re-opening,  but  a few  days  since,  the  book  which  my  Christ 
Church  official  tutor,  Walter  Brown,  recommended  to  me  as 
the  most  useful  code  of  English  religious  wisdom,  the  “ Nat- 
ural History  of  Enthusiasm,”  I chanced  on  this  following  pas- 
sage, which  I think  must  have  been  one  of  the  first  to  startle 
the  complacency  of  my  Puritan  creed.  My  since  experience 
in  theological  writing  furnishes  me  with  no  more  terrific 
example  of  the  absence  alike  of  charity  and  understanding  in 
the  leading  masters  of  that  sect,  beyond  all  others  into  which 
the  Church  has  ever  been  divided  : — 

‘Mf  it  be  for  a moment  forgotten  that  in  every  bell,  and 


236 


FR^TERITA. 


bowl,  and  vest  of  the  Eomish  service  there  is  hid  a device 
against  the  liberty  and  welfare  of  mankind,  and  that  its  gold, 
and  peai-ls,  and  fine  linen  are  the  deckings  of  eternal  ruin ; 
and  if  this  apparatus  of  worship  be  compared  with  the  impu- 
rities and  the  cruelties  of  the  old  Pol3dheistic  rites,  great 
praise  may  seem  due  to  its  contrivers.  All  tbe  materials  of 
poetic  and  scenic  effect  have  been  elaborated  by  the  genius 
and  taste  of  the  Italian  artists  until  a spectacle  has  been  got 
up  which  leaves  the  most  splendid  shows  of  the  ancient  idol 
worship  of  Greece  and  Eome  at  a vast  distance  of  inferi- 
ority.” 

Yet  I cannot  distinctly  remember  being  shocked,  even  at 
this  passage,  and  I know  there  was  much  in  the  rest  of  the 
book  that  pleased  me  ; but  I had  already  the  advantage  over 
its  author,  and  over  all  such  authors,  of  knowing,  when  I saw 
them,  sincere  art  from  lying  art,  and  happy  faith  from  inso- 
lent dogmatism.  I knew  that  the  voices  in  the  Trinita  di 
Monte  did  not  sing  to  deceive  me  ; and  that  the  kneeling  mul- 
titude before  the  Pontiff  were  indeed  bettered  and  strength- 
ened by  his  benediction. 

Although  I had  been  able,  w^eather  favoring,  to  see  the 
Easter  ceremonies  without  danger,  there  was  no  sign,  take 
all  in  all,  of  gain  to  my  health  from  Eoman  winter.  My  own 
discouragement  was  great ; and  the  first  cautious  journejdngs 
back  by  Teriii  and  Fuligno  were  sad  enough  ; — the  night  at 
Terni  very  deeply  so.  For  in  the  evening,  when  we  came 
back  from  seeing  the  falls,  the  servant  of  a young  Englishman 
asked  to  speak  with  us,  saying  that  he  was  alone  in  charge  of 
his  master,  who  had  been  stopped  there  by  sudden,  he  feared 
mortal,  illness.  Would  m3'  father  come  and  see  him  ? My 
father  went,  and  found  a beautifully  featured  Scottish  youth 
of  three  or  four  and  twent3’,  indeed  in  the  last  day  of  decline. 
He  died  during  the  night,  and  we  were  of  some  use  to  the 
despairing  servant  afterward.  I forget  now  whether  we  ever 
knew  who  tlie  youth  was.  I find  his  name  in  my  diaiy,  ^‘Far- 
quharson,”  but  no  more. 

As  we  drew  northward,  however,  oat  of  the  volcanic  coun- 
try, I recovered  heart ; the  enchanted  world  of  Venice  enlarg- 


CUMuT]. 


237 


ing  ill  front  of  me.  I had  only  yet  once  seen  lier,  and  that 
six  years  ago,  when  still  a child.  That  the  fairy  tale  should 
come  true  now  seemed  wholly  incredible,  and  the  start  from 
the  gate  of  Padua  in  the  morning, — Venice,  asserted  by  peo- 
ple wliom  we  could  not  but  believe,  to  be  reallj^  over  there, 
on  the  horizon,  in  the  sea  ! How  to  tell  the  feeling  of  it! 

I hawe  not  yet  fancied  the  reader’s  answer  to  the  first  ques- 
tion proposed  in  outset  of  this  chapter, — does  he  think  me  a 
fortunate  or  unfortunate  youth? 

As  to  preparation  for  the  future  world,  terrestrial  or  celes- 
tial, or  future  self  in  either,  there  may  be  two  opinions — two 
or  three  perhaps — on  the  matter.  But,  there  is  no  question 
that,  of  absolute  happiness,  I had  the  share  of  about  a quarter 
of  a million  of  average  people,  all  to  myself.  Isay  “peo]3le,” 
not  “ boys.”  I don’t  know  what  delight  boys  take  in  cricket, 
or  boating,  or  throwing  stones  at  birds,  or  learning  to  shoot 
them.  But  of  average  people  in  continuity  of  occupation, 
shopmen,  clerks.  Stock  Exchange  people,  club  and  Pall  Mall 
people,  certainly  there  was  no  reckoning  the  quantity  of  hap- 
piness I had  in  comparison,  followed  indeed  by  times  of  reac- 
tion, or  of  puzzled  satiety;  and  partly  avenged  by  extremes  of 
vexation  at  what  vexed  nobody  else;  but  indisputably  and  in- 
finitely precious  in  itself,  every  day  complete  at  the  end,  as  with 
Sydney  Smith’s  salad  : “ Pate  cannot  harm  me  ; I have  dined, 
to-day.  ” 

The  two  clmpters  closing  the  first,  and  beginning  the  sec- 
ond volume  of  the  Stones  of  Venice  ” were  written,  I see  on 
re-reading,  in  the  melancholy  experience  of  1852,  with  hon- 
est effort  to  tell  every  traveller  what  was  really  to  be  seen. 
They  do  not  attempt  to  recall  my  own  joys  of  1835  and  1841, 
wlien  tliere  was  not  even  beginning  of  railway  bridge  ; when 
everything,  muddy  Brenta,  vulgar  villa,  dusty  causeway,  sandy 
beach,  was  equally  rich  in  rapture,  on  the  morning  that 
brought  us  in  sight  of  Venice  : and  the  black  knot  of  gondolas 
in  the  canal  of  Mestre,  more  beautiful  to  me  than  a sunrise 
full  of  clouds  all  scarlet  and  gold. 

But  again,  how  to  tell  of  it?  or  even  explain  it  to  myself, — 
the  English  mind,  high  or  common,  being  utterly  without 


238 


PllMTERITA. 


trace  of  the  feeling.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  goes  to  Venice,  and  1 
seems  unconscious  that  it  is  in  the  sea  at  all.  Elizabeth  Lady  f 

Craven,  in  1789,  “ expected  to  see  a gay  clean-looking  town,  ,j 

with  quays  on  each  side  of  the  canals,  but  was  extremely  ( 
disappointed  ; the  houses  are  in  the  water,  and  look  dirty  and  ? 

uncomfortable  on  the  outside  ; the  innumerable  quantity  of  \ 

gondolas  too,  that  look  like  swimming  coffins,  added  to  the  \ 

dismal  scene,  and,  I confess,  Venice  on  my  arrival  struck  me  ! 

with  horror  rather  than  pleasure.” 

After  this,  she  goes  to  the  Casiui,  and  is  happy.  It  does 
not  appear  she  had  ever  read  the  “ Merchant,”  or  “ Othello 
still  less  has  Evelyn  read  them,  though  for  him,  as  for  Sidney, 
Othello'’ s and  Antonio’s  Venice  was  still  all  but  living.  My 
Venice,  like  Turner’s,  had  been  chiefly  created  for  us  by  Byron  ; 
but  for  me,  there  was  also  still  the  pure  childish  passion  of 
pleasure  in  seeing  boats  float  in  clear  water.  The  beginning 
of  everything  was  in  seeing  the  gondola-beak  come  actually 
inside  the  door  at  Danieli’s,  when  the  tide  was  up,  and  the 
water  two  feet  deep  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs ; and  then,  all 
along  the  canal  sides,  actual  marble  walls  rising  out  of  tlie 
salt  sea,  with  hosts  of  little  brown  crabs  on  them,  and  Titians 
inside. 

Between  May  Gth  and  16th  I made  notes  on  effects  of  light, 
afterward  greatly  useful  in  “Modern  Painters  ;”  and  two  pen- 
cil drawings,  “ Ca’  Contarini  Fasan,”  and  the  “ Giant’s  Stair- 
case,” of  which,  with  two  more  made  at  Bologna  in  passing, 
and  some  half  dozen  at  Naples  and  Amalfi,  I can  say,  now 
forty  years  later,  with  certitude,  that  they  could  not  have 
been  much  better  done.  I knew  absolutely  nothing  of  archi- 
tecture proper,  had  never  drawn  a section  nor  a leaf  mould- 
ing ; but  liked,  as  Turner  did  to  the  end  of  his  days,  anything 
that  was  graceful  and  rich,  whether  Gothic  or  Renaissance  ; 
was  entirely  certain  and  delicate  in  pencil-touch  ; and  drew 
with  an  acuteness  of  delight  in  the  thing  as  it  actually  stood, 
which  makes  the  sketch  living  and  like,  from  corner  to  corner. 
Thus  much  I could  do,  and  did  do,  for  the  last  time.  Next 
year  I began  trying  to  do  what  I could  not,  and  have  gone  on 
ever  since,  spending  half  of  my  days  in  that  mannero 


OUM^. 


239 


I find  a sentence  in  diary  on  6tli  May,  which  seems  incon- 
sistent with  what  I have  said  of  the  centres  of  my  life  work. 

“ Thank  God  I am  here  ; it  is  the  Paradise  of  cities.” 

“This,  and  Cliamoimi,  are  my  two  bournes  of  Earth.” 

Put  then,  I knew  neither  liouen  nor  Pisa,  though  I had 
seen  both.  (Geneva,  when  I spoke  of  it  with  them,  is  meant 
to  include  Charnouni.)  Venice  I regard  more  and  more  as  a 
vain  temptation — the  diary  says — where  the  stars  are.  “There 
is  moon  enough  to  make  half  the  sanities  of  the  earth  lunatic, 
striking  its  pure  flashes  of  light  on  the  gray  water.” 

From  Venice,  by  Padua,  where  St.  Antonio, — by  Milan, 
where  the  Duomo, — were  still  faultless  to  me,  and  each  a 
perfect  bliss  ; to  Turin — to  Susa;  my  health  still  bettering  in 
the  siglit  of  Alps,  and  what  breeze  came  dowii  from  them — 
and  over  Cenis  for  the  first  time.  I woke  froin  a sound 
tired  sleep  in  a little  one-windowed  room  at  Lans-le-bourg,  at 
six  of  the  summer  morning,  June  2d,  1841;  the  red  aiguilles 
on  the  north  relieved  against  pure  blue -the  great  pyramid 
of  snow  down  the  valley  in  one  sheet  of  eastern  light.  I 
dressed  in  three  minutes,  ran  down  the  village  street,  across 
the  stream,  and  climbed  the  grassy  slope  on  the  south  side  of 
the  valley,  uj)  to  the  first  pines. 

I had  found  my  life  again  ;~all  the  best  of  it.  V/hat  good  of 
religion,  love,  admiration  or  hope,  had  ever  been  taught  me, 
or  felt  by  my  best  nature,  rekindled  at  once  ; and  my  line  of 
work,  both  by  my  own  will  and  the  aid  granted  to  it  by  fate 
in  the  future,  determined  for  me.  I went  down  thankfully  to 
my  father  and  mother,  and  told  them  I was  sure  I should  get 
well. 

As  to  my  mere  physical  state,  the  doctors  had  been  entirely 
mistaken  about  me.  I wanted  bracing  air,  exercise,  and  rest 
from  all  artificial  excitement.  The  air  of  the  Carapagna  was 
the  worst  they  could  have  sent  me  into — the  life  of  Rome  the 
worst  they  could  have  chosen. 

The  three  following  diary  entries,  which  meant  much  after- 
ward, may  summarily  end  what  I fear  has  been  a tiresome 
chapter. 


240 


PR^TEUITA, 


I.  “Geneva,  June  5th.  Yesterday  from  Chambery, — a 
fresh  north  wind  blowing  away  the  dust.  Much  pleased  with 
the  respectable  young  wife  of  a confectioner,  at  one  of  the 
mid-towns  where  I went  to  get  some  Savoy  biscuits — and 
asked  for  ‘a  pound.’  ‘Mais,  Monsieur,  une  livre  sera  un  pen 
— volumineuse  ! je  vous  en  donnemi  la  moitie  ; vous  verrez 
si  cela  vous  suffii-a  ; ’ — ‘ Ah,  Louise  ’ (to  a little  bright-e}^ed 
lady  in  the  inner  room,  who  was  expressing  her  disapproba- 
tion of  some  of  the  affairs  of  life  too  loudly),  ‘ si  tu  n’es  pas 
sage,  tu  vas  savoir’ — but  so  playfully  and  kindly  ! Got  here 
on  a lovely  afternoon  near  sunset,  and  the  green  bastions  and 
bright  Saleve  and  rushing  Ehone  and  far  Jura,  aU  so  lovely 
that  I was  nearly  vowing  never  to  go  into  Italy  again.” 

II.  “June  6th.  Pouring  rain  all  day,  and  slow  extempore 
sermon  from  a weak-voiced  young  man  in  a white  arched 
small  chapel,  with  a braying  organ  and  doggerel  hymns. 
Several  times,  about  the  same  hour  on  Sunday  mornings,  a 
fit  of  self-reproach  has  come  upon  me  for  my  idling  at  pres- 
ent, and  I have  formed  resolutions  to  be  always  trying  to  get 
knowledge  of  some  kind  or  other,  or  bodily  strength,  or 
some  real  available,  continuing  good,  rather  than  the  mere 
amusement  of  the  time.  It  came  on  me  to-day  very  strongly, 
and  I would  give  anything  and  everything-^  to  keep  myself  in 
the  temper,  for  I always  slip  out  of  it  next  day.” 

in.  “December  11th,  1842.  Vei*y  odd  \ Exactly  the  same 
fit  came  on  me  in  the  same  church,  next  year,  and  was  the 
origin  of  Turneffs  work.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FONTAINEBLEAU. 

We  reached  Rochester  on  the  29th  of  June,  and  a month 
was  spent  at  home,  considering  what  was  to  be  done  next. 
My  own  feeling,  ever  since  the  morning  at  Lans-le-bourg, 
was  that,  if  only  left  free  in  mountain  air,  I should  get  well, 
fast  enough.  After  debate  with  London  doctors,  it  was 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


. 241 


tboiiglit  best  to  give  me  my  way ; and,  stipulating  only  that 
Richard  Fall  should  go  with  me,  papa  and  mamma  sent  me, 
early  in  August,  on  my  first  independent  journey,  into  ¥/ales. 

But  they  desired  me,  on  my  way  there,  to  stop  at  Leam- 
ington, and  show  myself  to  its  dominant  physician,  Dr.  Jeph- 
son — called  a quack  by  all  the  Faculty,  yet  of  whom  they 
had  heard  favorably  from  wise  friends. 

Jephson  was  no  quack  ; but  a man  of  the  highest  general 
i^ower,  and  keenest  medical  instincts.  He  had  risen,  by 
stubborn  industry  and  acute  observation,  from  an  apothe- 
cary’s boy  to  be  the  first  physician  in  Leamington ; and  was 
the  first  true  ph^^sician  I ever  knew — nor  since,  till  I knew 
Sir  William  Gull,  have  I met  the  match  of  him. 

He  examined  me  for  ten  minutes  ; then  said,  Stay  here, 
and  I’ll  put  you  to  rights  in  six  weeks.”  I said  I was  not 
the  least  disposed  to  stay  there,  and  was  going  into  Wales, 
but  would  obey  any  directions  and  follow^  any  prescriptions 
he  chose  to  give  me.  No,  he  said,  I must  stay,  or  he  could 
do  nothing  for  me.  I thought  this  did  look  a little  like 
cjuackery,  and  accordingly  made  my  bow,  and  proceeded  on 
my  journey  into  Wales,  after  writing  a full  account  of  the 
interview  to  father. 

At  Pont-y-Monach  lay  for  me  a letter  from  him,  bidding 
me  go  back  to  Leamington  at  once,  and  place  myself  under 
Jephson ’s  care.  Richard  therefore  went  on  to  Snov/don  by 
himself ; and  I,  returning  with  what  speed  the  mail  could 
make,  presented  myself  to  the  doctor  penitently.  He  sent 
me  into  tiny  lodgings  near  the  Wells,  where  I spent  six  weeks 
of  life  extremely  ne^v  to  me  ; much  grumbled  at  in  my  diary, 
— not  unpleasant,  now  remembered. 

Salt  water  from  the  Wells  in  the  morning,  and  iron,  visibly 
glittering  in  deposit  at  bottom  of  glass,  twice  a day.  Break- 
fast at  eight,  with  herb  tea — dandelion,  I think  ; dinner  at 
one,  supper  at  six,  both  of  meat,  bread,  and  w'ater,  only ; — 
fish,  meat,  or  fowl,  as  I chose,  but  only  one  dish  of  the  meat 
chosen,  and  no  vegetables  nor  fruit.  Walk,  forenoon  and 
afternoon,  and  early  to  bed.  Such  the  regimen  suddenly  en- 
forced on  my  luxurious  life. 

16 


242  ' 


PR^^TERITA. 


To  which  discipline  I submitted  accurately  : and  found  life 
still  worth  having  on  these  terms,  and  the  renewed  hope  of 
its  continuance,  extremely  interesting. 

Nor  wanting  in  interest,  the  grotesquely  prosaic  position 
itself.  Here  I was,  in  a small  square  brick  lodging-house, 
number  what  you  like  of  its  row,  looking  out  on  a bit  of 
suburban  paddock,  and  a broken  paling ; mean  litter  every- 
where about ; the  muddy  lingering  of  Learn,  about  three 
yards  broad,  at  the  other  side  of  the  paddock;  a- ragged 
brambly  bank  at  the  other  side  of  it.  Down  the  row,  begin- 
nings of  poor  people’s  shops,  then  an  aristocratic  grocer 
and  mercer  or  two,  the  circulating  library,  and  the  Pump 
Eoom. 

After  the  Bay  of  Naples,  Mount  Aventine,  and  St.  Mark’s 
Place,  it  felt  like  the  first  practical  scene  of  a pantomime, 
after  the  transformation,  and  before  the  business  begins. 
But  I had  been  extremel}''  dull  under  Mount  Aventine  ; and 
did  not,  to  my  surprise,  feel  at  all  disposed  to  be  dull  here, — 
but  somowdiat  amused,  and  with  a pleasant  feeling  of  things 
being  really  at  last  all  right,  for  me  at  least  ; though  it 
wasn’t  as  grand  as  Peckwater,  nor  as  pretty  as  St.  Mark’s 
Place.  Any  how,  I was  down  to  Croydon  level  again  in  the 
world  ; and  might  do  what  I liked  in  my  own  lodgings,  and 
hadn’t  any  Collections  to  get  readj^  for. 

The  first  tiling  I did  was  to  go  to  the  library  and  choose  a 
book  to  work  at.  After  due  examination,  I bought  Agassiz’s 
“ Poissons  Fossiles  ! ” and  set  myself  to  counting  of  scales 
and  learning  of  hard  names, — thinking,  as  some  people  do 
still,  that  ill  that  manner  I might  best  advance  in  geology. 
Also  I supplied  myself  with  some  Captain  Marryat ; and 
some  beautiful  new  cakes  of  color  wherewith  to  finish  a draw- 
ing, in  Turner’s  grandest  manner,  of  the  Chateau  of  Amboise 
at  sunset,  witli  the  moon  rising  in  the  distance,  and  shining 
through  a bridge. 

The  “Poissons  Fossiles  ” turned  out  a most  useful  pur- 
chase, enabling  me  finally  to  perceive,  after  steady  work  on 
them,  that  Agassiz  was  a mere  blockhead  to  have  paid  for 
all  that  good  drawing  of  the  nasty  ugly  things,  and  that  it 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


243 


didn’t  matter  a stale  herring  to  any  mortal  whether  they  had 
any  names  or  not. 

Fcr  any  positive  or  useful  purpose,  I could  not  more  ut- 
terly have  wasted  my  time  ; but  it  was  no  small  gain  to  know 
that  time  spent  in  that  sort  of  work  was  wasted  ; and  that  to 
have  caught  a chub  in  the  Avon,  and  learned  how  to  cook  it 
spicily  and  herbaceously,  so  as  to  have  pleased  Izaak  Walton, 
if  the  odor  of  it  could  reach  him  in  the  Anglers’  Paradise, 
would  have  been  a better  result  of  six  weeks’  study  than  to 
be  able  to  count  and  call  by  their  right  names  every  scale 
stuck  in  the  mud  of  the  universe. 

Also  I got  a wholesome  perception,  from  that  book,  of  the 
true  relation  between  artists  and  scientific  gentlemen.  For  I 
saw  that  the  real  genius  concerned  in  the  “ Poissons  Fossiles  ” 
was  the  lithographer’s,  and  not  at  all  the  scientific  gentle- 
man’s ; and  that  the  book  ought  to  have  been  called  after  the 
litliographer,  his  fishes,  only  with  their  scales  counted  and 
called  bad  names  by  subservient  Mons.  Agassiz. 

The  second  thing  of  specific  meaning  that  went  on  in  Leam- 
ington lodgings  was  the  aforesaid  highly  labored  drawing  of 
the  Chateau  of  Amboise,  “ out  of  my  head  ; ” representing  the 
castle  as  about  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  river,  (it  is  per- 
haps eighty  or  ninety,)  v/ith  sunset  light  on  it,  in  imitation 
of  Turner  ; and  the  moon  rising  behind  it,  in  imitation  of 
Turner  ; and  some  steps  and  balustrades  (which  are  not 
there)  going  down  to  the  river,  in  imitation  of  Turner  ; with 
the  fretwork  of  St.  Hubert’s  Chapel  done  very  carefully 
in  my  own  way, — I thought  perhaps  a little  better  than  Tur- 
ner. 

This  drawing,  and  the  poem  of  the  “Broken  Chain,”  which 
it  was  to  illustrate,  after  being  beautifully  engraved  by  Good- 
all,  turned  out  afterward  equally  salutary  exercises  ; proving 
to  me  that  in  those  directions  of  imagination  I was  even  a 
worse  blockhead  than  Agassiz  himself.  Meantime,  the  autumn 
weather  was  fine,  the  corn  wns  ripe,  and  once  out  of  sight  of 
the  paddock,  the  Pump  Room,  and  the  Parade,  the  space  of 
surrounding  Warwickshire  within  afternoon  walk  was  ex- 
tremely impressive  to  me,  in  its  English  way.  Warwick  tow- 


244 


PR^TEBITA. 


ers  in  sight  over  the  near  tree  tops;  Kenilworth,  within 
an  afternoon’s  walk ; Stratford,  to  be  reached  by  an  hour’s 
drive  with  a trotting  pony  ; and,  round  them,  as  far  as  eye 
could  reach,  a space  of  perfect  England,  not  hill  and  dale, 
— that  might  be  anywhere;  — but  hill  and  flat,  through 
which  the  streams  linger,  and  where  the  canals  wind  with- 
out lock. 

Under  these  peaceful  conditions  I began  to  look  carefully 
at  cornflowers,  thistles,  and  holUhocks ; and  find,  by  entry  on 
Sept.  15th,  that  I was  writing  a bit  of  the  “ King  of  the  Gold- 
en River,”  and  reading  Alison’s  “ Europe  ” and  Turner’s 
“ Chemistry.” 

Anent  the  “ King  of  the  River,”  I remorsefully  bethink  me 
no  word  has  been  said  of  the  dawn  and  sunrise  of  Dickens 
on  us  ; from  the  first  syllable  of  him  in  the  “ Sketches,”  alto- 
gether precious  and  admirable  to  m}''  father  and  me  ; and  the 
new  number  of  “ Pickwick  ” and  following  “ Nickleby  ” looked 
to,  through  whatever  laborious  or  tragic  realities  might  be 
upon  us,  as  unmixed  bliss,  for  the  next  day.  But  Dickens 
iiught  us  nothing  wdth  which  we  were  not  familiar, — only 
painted  it  perfectly  for  us.  We  knew  quite  as  much  about 
coachmen  and  hostlers  as  he  did  ; and  rather  more  about 
Yorkshire.  As  a caricaturist,  both  in  the  studied  develop- 
ment of  his  own  manner,  and  that  of  the  illustrative  etchings, 
he  put  himself  out  of  the  pale  of  great  authors ; so  that  he 
never  became  an  educational  element  of  mj^  life,  but  only  one 
of  its  chief  comforts  and  restoratives. 

The  “King  of  the  Golden  River”  was  written  to  amuse  a 
little  girl  ; and  being  a fairly  good  imitation  of  Grimm  and 
Dickens,  mixed  with  a little  true  Alpine  feeling  of  my  own, 
has  been  rightly  pleasing  to  nice  children,  and  good  for  them. 
But  it  is  totally  valueless,  for  all  that.  I can  no  more  write  a 
story  than  compose  a picture. 

Jephson  kept  his  word,  and  let  me  go  in  six  weeks,  with 
my  health,  he  told  me, —I  doubt  not,  truly,  — in  my  own 
hands.  And  indeed,  if  I had  continued  to  live  on  mutton  and 
iron,  learned  to  swim  in  the  sea  which  I loved,  and  set  myself 
wholly  upon  my  geology  and  poissons — vivants  instead  of 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


245 


fossiles, Well,  I suppose  I should  have  been  drowned  like 

Charles,  or  lain  within  a j^ear  or  two, 

“ on  a glacier,  half  way  up  to  heaven. 

Taking  my  final  rest.” 

What  might  have  been,  the  mute  Fates  know.  I myself 
know  only,  with  certainty,  what  ought  not  to  have  been, — 
that,  getting  released  from  Leamington,  I took  again  to  brown 
potatoes  and  cherry-pie  ; instead  of  learning  to  swim  and 
climb,  continued  writing  pathetic  verses,  and  at  this  particu- 
larly foolish  crisis  of  life,  as  aforesaid,  trying  to  paint  twilight 
like  Turner.  I was  not  simpleton  enough  to  think  I could 
follow  him  in  daylight,  but  I thought  I could  do  something 
like  his  “ Kenilworth  Castle  ” at  sunset,  with  the  milkmaid 
and  the  moon. 

I have  passed  without  notice  what  the  reader  might  suppose 
a principal  event  of  my  life, — the  being  introduced  to  him 
by  Mr.  Griffith,  at  Norwood  dinner,  June  22d,  1840. 

The  diary  says,  “Introduced  to-day  to  the  man  who  beyond 
all  doubt  is  the  greatest  of  the  age  ; greatest  in  every  faculty 
of  the  imagination,  in  every  branch  of  scenic*  knowledge  ; at 
once  the  painter  and  poet  of  the  day,  J.  M.  W.  Turner. 
Everybody  had  described  him  to  me  as  coarse,  boorish,  unin- 
tellectual, vulgar.  This  I knew  to  be  impossible.  I found  in 
him  a somewhat  eccentric,  keen-mannered,  matter-of-fact, 
English-minded — gentleman  : good-natured  evidently,  bad- 
tempered  evidently,  hating  humbug  of  all  sorts,  shrewd,  per- 
haps a little  selfish,  highly  intellectual,  the  powers  of  the 
mind  not  brought  out  with  any  delight  in  their  manifestation, 
or  intention  of  display,  but  flashing  out  occasionally  in  a word 
or  a look.” 

Pretty  close,  that,  and  full,  to  be  seen  at  a first  glimpse, 
and  set  down  the  same  evening. 

Curiously,  the  drawing  of  Kenilworth  was  one  of  those  that 
came  out  of  Mr.  Griffith’s  folio  after  dinner  ; and  I believe 
I must  have  talked  some  folly  about  it,  as  being  “ a leading 

* Meaning;,  I suppose,  knowledge  of  what  could  rightly  be  represented 
or  composed  as  a scene. 


24G 


PB^TERITA. 


one  of  the  England  series  ; ” which  would  displease  Turner 
greatl3^  There  were  few  thing  he  hated  more  than  hearing 
people  gush  about  particular  drawings.  He  knew  it  merely 
meant  they  could  not  see  the  others. 

Anyhow,  he  stood  silent  ; the  general  talk  went  on  as  if  he 
had  not  been  there.  He  washed  me  good-night  kindl}%  and 
I did  not  see  him  again  till  I came  back  from  Home. 

If  he  had  but  asked  me  to  come  and  see  him  the  next  day  1 
shown  me  a pencil  sketch,  and  let  me  see  him  lay  a wash ! 
He  would  have  saved  me  ten  years  of  life,  and  w'ould  not  have 
been  less  happy  in  the  close  of  his  own.  One  can  only  say, 
Such  things  are  never  to  be  ; every  soul  of  us  has  to  do  its 
fight  with  the  Untoward,  and  for  itself  discover  the  Unseen. 

So  here  I was  at  Leamington,  trying  to  paint  twilight  at 
Amboise,  and  meditating  over  the  “Poissons  Fossiles,”  and 
Michael  Angelo.  Set  free  of  the  Parade,  I went  to  stay  a few 
days  with  my  college  tutor,  Walter  Brown,  Kector  now  of 
“ Wendlebury,”  a village  in  the  flats,  eleven  miles  north  of 
Oxford.  Flats,  not  marshes  : wholesome  pastoral  fields,  sep- 
arated by  hedges  ; here  and  there  a haystack,  a gate,  or  a 
stile.  The  village  consisted  of  twelve  or  fifteen  thatched  cot- 
tages, and  the  Kectory.  The  Rectory  was  a square  house, 
with  a garden  fifty  yards  square.  The  church,  close  by, 
about  four  yards  high  by  twenty  yards  long,  had  a square 
tower  at  the  end,  and  a weather-cock. 

Good  Mr.  Walter  Brown  had  married  an  entirely  worthy, 
very  plain,  somewhat  middle-aged  wife,  and  settled  himself 
down,  with  all  his  scholarship  and  good  gifts,  to  promote  the 
spiritual  welfare  of  Wendlebury.  He  interested  himself  en- 
tirely in  that  object ; dug  his  garden  himself ; took  a scholar 
or  two  to  prepare  for  Oxford  examinations,  with  whom  in  the 
mornings  he  read  in  the  old  way  ; studied  the  “Natural  His- 
tory of  Enthusiasm,”  and  was  perfectly  happy  and  contented,- 
to  the  end  of  his  time. 

Finding  him  proud  of  his  little  church  and  its  weather- 
cock, I made  a drawing  of  it  for  him,  in  my  best  manner,  at 
sunset,  with  a moonrise  behind.  He  objected  a little  to  hav- 
ing the  sky  upside  down,  with  the  darkest  blue  at  the  hot- 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


247 


tom,  to  brio"  out  the  church  ; but  somehow,  everybody  at 
this  time  had  begun  to  believe  in  me,  and  thinl:  I knew  more 
about  drawing  than  other  people  : and  the  meekness  with 
which  Mr.  Brown  would  listen  to  me  lecturing  on  Michael 
Angelo,  from  a series  of  outlines  of  the  Last  Judgment  which 
I had  brought  from  Rome,  with  the  muscles  engraved  all  over 
the  bodies  like  branch  railroads,  remains  wholly  phenomenal 
and  mystic  in  my  memory.  Nobody  is  ever  the  least  meek 
to  me  now,  when  I do  know  something  about  it. 

But  Mr.  Brown  and  his  wife  vv'ere  in  all  wa3's  extremely 
kind  to  me,  and  seemed  to  like  having  me  with  them.  It  was 
perhaps  only  their  only  politeness : I can  neither  fancy"  nor 
find  anything  in  myself  at  this  time  which  could  have  been 
pleasant  to  anybody",  unless  the  mere  wish  to  be  pleasant, 
which  I had  always  ; seeking  to  saj",  so  far  as  I could  hon- 
estl}",  what  would  be  agreeable  to  whomsoever  I spoke  to. 

From  Wendlebury  I went  home,  and  made  final  prepara» 
tion,  with  Gordon’s  help,  for  taking  my  degree  in  the  spring. 
I find  entry  on  Nov.  loth,  1841,  at  Herne  Hill,  “I  have  got 
my  rooms  in  order  at  last ; I shall  set  to  work  on  my  reading 
to-morrow,  methodicalh",  but  not  hard.”  Setting  my  rooms 
in  order  has,  throughout  life,  been  an  occasionally  compla- 
cent recreation  to  me  ; but  I have  never  succeeded  in  keep- 
ing them  in  order  three  days  after  they  w'ere  in  it. 

On  the  da}^  following  comes  this  : “ Mem,,  wh}"  is  hoarfrost 
formed  in  larger  ciystals  on  the  ribs  and  edges  of  leaves  than 
ill  other  places  ? ” (on  other  parts  of  the  leaf,  I meant) — ques- 
tion which  I had  thought  asked  for  the  first  time  in  1113"  ice- 
stud3'  of  ’79,  and  which  is  not  answered  yet. 

The  entry  next  day  is  also  worth  copying:  “Read  the 
Clementina  part  of  ‘ Sir  Charles  Grandison.’  I never  met 
with  anything  which  affected  me  so  powerfully  ; at  present 
I feel  disposed  to  place  this  ivork  above  all  other  works  of 
fiction  I know.  It  is  very,  very  grand ; and  has,  I think,  a 
greater  practical  effect  on  me  for  good  than  anything  I ever 
read  in  my  life.” 

I find  my  first  lessons  from  Harding  were  also  at  this  time  ; 
very  delightful  for  what  they  w"ere  worth,  though  I saw  well 


248 


PRyETERITA. 


11 


enough  his  shortcomings.  But  it  was  lovely  to  see  him  draw, 
in  his  own  way,  and  up  to  a certain  point.  His  knowledge 
of  tree  form  was  true,  and  entirely  w’on  for  himself,  with  an 
honest  original  perception.  Also,  he  was  a violent  hater  of 
the  old  Dutch  school,  and  I imagine  the  first  who  told  me 
that  they  were  “sots,  gamblers,  and  debauchees,  delighting 
in  the  reality  of  the  alehouse  more  than  in  its  pictures.”  All 
Avhich  was  awakening  and  beneficial  to  no  small  extent. 

And  so  the  year  1842  dawned  for  me,  with  many  things  in 
its  morning  cloud.  In  the  early  spring  of  it,  a change  came 
over  Turner’s  mind.  He  w^anted  to  make  some  drawings  to 
please  himself  ; but  also  to  be  paid  for  making  them.  He 
gave  Mr.  Griffith  fifteen  sketches  for  choice  of  subject  by  any 
one  who  Avould  give  him  a commission.  He  got  commissions 
for  nine,  of  which  m3'  father  let  me  choose  at  first  one,  then 
was  coaxed  and  tricked  into  letting  me  have  two.  Turner 
got  orders,  out  of  all  the  round  world  besides,  for  seven 
more.  With  the  sketches,  four  finished  drawings  were  shown 
for  samples  of  the  sort  of  thing  Turner  meant  to  make  of 
them,  and  for  immediate  purchase  by  anybody. 

Among  them  was  the  “ Splugen,”  wffiich  I had  some  hope  of 
obtaining  by  supplication,  when  my  father,  who  w'as  travelling, 
came  home.  I waited  dutifully  till  he  should  come.  In  the 
meantime  it  was  bought,  with  the  loveliest  “Lake  Lucerne,” 
by  Mr.  IMunro  of  Novar. 

The  thing  became  to  me  grave  matter  for  meditation.  In 
a story  by  Miss  Edgeworth,  the  father  would  have  come 
home  in  the  nick  of  time,  effaced  Mr.  Munro  as  he  hesitated 
with  the  “Splugen”  in  his  hand,  and  given  the  dutiful  son 
that,  and  another.  I found,  after  meditation,  that  Miss  Edge- 
worth’s  way  w'as  not  the  world’s,  nor  Providence’s.  I per- 
ceived then,  and  conclusively,  that  if  you  do  a foolish  thing, 
you  suffer  for  it  exactly  the  same,  whether  you  do  it  piously 
or  not.  I knew  perfectly  well  that  this  drawing  was  the 
best  Swiss  landscape  yet  painted  by  man ; and  that  it  was 
entirely  proper  for  me  to  have  it,  and  inexpedient  that 
anybody  else  should.  I ought  to  have  secured  it  instant- 
ly, and  begged  my  father’s  pardon,  tenderly.  He  would 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


249 


have  been  angry,  and  surprised,  and  grieved ; but  loved  me 
none  the  less,  found  in  the  end  I was  right,  and  been 
entirely  pleased.  I should  have  been  very  uncomfortable 
and  penitent  for  a while,  but  loved  my  father  all  the  more 
for  having  hurt  him,  and,  in  the  good  of  the  thing  itself, 
finally  satisfied  and  triumphant.  As  it  was,  the  “ Splugen  ” 
was  a thorn  in  both  our  sides,  ail  our  lives.  My  father  was 
always  trying  to  get  it ; Mr.  Munro,  aided  by  dealers,  always 
raising  the  price  on  him,  till  it  got  up  from  80  to  400  guineas. 
Then  we  gave  it  u]^, — with  unspeakable  wear  and  tear  of  best 
feelings  on  both  sides. 

And  how  about  “ Thou  shalt  not  covet,”  etc.  ? Good  read- 
er, if  you  ask  this,  please  consult  my  philosophical  works. 
Here,  I can  only  tell  you  facts,  whether  of  circumstance  or 
law.  It  is  a law  that  if  you  do  a foolish  thing  you  suffer  for 
it,  whatever  your  motive.  I do  not  say  the  motive  itself  may 
not  be  rewarded  or  punished  on  its  o^yn  merits.  In  this  case, 
nothing  but  mischief,  as  far  as  I know,  came  of  the  whole 
matter. 

In  the  meantime,  bearing  the  disappointment  as  best  I 
couM,  I rejoiced  in  the  sight  of  the  sketches,  and  the  hope  of 
the  drawings  that  were  to  be.  And  they  gave  me  much  more 
to  think  of  than  my  mischance.  I saw  that  these  sketches 
were  straight  impressions  from  nature, — not  artificial  designs, 
like  tlie  Garthages  and  Koines.  And  it  began  to  occur  to  me 
that  perhaps  even  in  the  artifice  of  Turner  there  might  be 
more  truth  than  I had  understood.  I was  by  this  time  very 
learned  in  his  principles  of  composition  ; but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  in  these  later  subjects  Nature  herself  was  composing  with 
him. 

Considering  of  these  matters,  one  day  on  the  road  to  Nor- 
wood, I noticed  a bit  of  ivy  round  a thorn  stem,  which 
seemed,  even  to  my  critical  judgment,  not  ill  “composed;” 
and  proceeded  to  make  a light  and  shade  pencil  study  of  it  in 
my  gray  paper  pocket-book,  carefully,  as  if  it  had  been  a bit 
of  sculpture,  liking  it  more  and  more  as  I drew.  When  it 
was  done,  I saw  that  I had  virtually  lost  all  my  time  since  I 
was  twelve  years  old,  because  no  one  had  ever  told  me  to 


250 


PR^TEMITA. 


draw  wliat  was  really  there  ! All  my  time,  I mean,  given  to 
drawing  as  an  art ; of  course  I had  the  records  of  places,  but 
had  never  seen  the  beauty  of  anything,  not  even  of  a stone — 
how  much  less  of  a leaf ! 

I was  neither  so  crushed  nor  so  elated  by  the  discovery 
as  I ought  to  have  been,  but  it  ended  the  chrysalid  days. 
Thenceforward  my  advance  was  steady,  however  slow. 

This  must  have  been  in  May,  and  a week  or  two  afterward 
I went  up  for  my  degree,  but  find  no  entry  of  it.  I only 
went  up  for  a pass,  and  still  wrote  Latin  so  badly  that  there 
was  a chance  of  my  not  passing ! but  the  examiners  forgave  it 
because  the  divinity,  philosophy,  and  mathematics  were  all 
above  the  average ; and  they  gave  me  a complimentary 
double-fourth. 

When  I was  sure  I had  got  through,  I went  out  for  a walk 
in  the  fields  north  of  New  College,  (since  turned  into  the 
Parks,)  happy  in  the  sense  of  recovered  freedom,  but  ex- 
tremely doubtful  to  what  use  I should  put  it.  There  I was, 
at  two  and  twentj',  with  such  and  such  powers,  all  second- 
rate  except  the  analytic  ones,  which  were  as  much  in  embryo 
as  the  rest,  and  w'hich  I had  no  means  of  measuring  ; such 
and  such  likings,  hitherto  indulged  rather  against  conscience  ; 
and  a dim  sense  of  duty  to  myself,  my  parents,  and  a daily 
more  vague  shadow  of  Eternal  Law. 

What  should  I be,  or  do?  my  utterly  indulgent  father 
ready  to  let  me  do  anything  ; with  my  room  always  luxuri- 
ously furnished  in  his  house, — my  expenses  paid  if  I chose  to 
travel.  I was  not  heartless  enough,  yet,  to  choose  to  do  that, 
alone.  Perhaps  it  may  deserve,  some  dim  praise  that  I never 
seriously  thought  of  leaving  my  father  and  mother  to  explore 
foreign  countries  ; and  certainly  the  fear  of  grieving  them  was 
intermingled  more  or  less  with  all  my  thoughts  ; but  then,  I 
did  not  much  leant  to  explore  foreign  countries.  I had  not 
the  least  love  of  adventure,  but  liked  to  have  comfortable 
rooms  always  ordered,  and  a three-course  dinner  ready  by 
four  o’clock.  Although  no  coward  under  circumstances  of 
accidental  danger,  I extremely  objected  to  any  vestige  of 
danger  as  a continuous  element  in  one’s  life.  1 would  not  go 


FONTAINEBLEA  JJ, 


251 


to  India,  for  fear  of  tigers,  nor  to  Enssia  for  fear  of  bears, 
nor  to  Peru  for  fear  of  earthquakes ; and  finalij^  though  I had 
no  rightly  glowing  or  grateful  affection  for  either  father  or 
mother,  yet  as  they  could  not  well  do  without  me,  so  also  I 
found  I was  not  altogether  comfortable  without  them. 

So  for  the  present,  we  planned  a summer-time  in  Switzer- 
land, not  of  travelling,  but  chie%  stay  in  Chamouni,  to  give 
me  mountain  air,  and  the  long- coveted  power  of  examining 
the  Mont  Blanc  rocks  accurately.  My  mother  loved  Cha- 
mouni nearly  as  much  as  I ; but  this  plan  was  of  severe  self- 
denial  to  my  father,  avIio  did  not  like  snow,  nor  wooden- 
walled  rooms. 

But  he  gave  up  all  his  own  likings  for  me,  and  let  me  plan 
the  stages  through  France  as  I chose,  by  Eoiien,  Chartres, 
Fontainebleau,  and  Auxerre.  A pencil- sketch  or  two  at  first 
show  only  want  of  faith  in  my  old  manner,  and  more  endea- 
vor for  light  and  shade,  futile  enough.  The  fiat  cross-coun- 
try between  Chartres  and  Fontainebleau,  with  an  oppressive 
sense  of  Paris  to  the  north,  fretted  me  wickedly  ; when  we 
got  to  the  Fountain  of  Fair  Water  I lay  feverishly  wakeful 
through  the  night,  and  was  so  heavy  and  ill  in  the  morniug 
that  I could  not  safely  travel,  and  fancied  some  bad  sickness 
was  coming  on.  However,  toward  twelve  o’clock  the  inn  peo- 
ple brought  me  a little  basket  of  wild  strawberries  ; and  they 
ref^shed  me,  and  I put  my  sketch-book  in  pocket  and  tot- 
tered out,  though  still  in  an  extremely  languid  and  woe- be- 
gone condition  ; and  getting  into  a cart-road  among  some 
young  trees,  where  there  was  nothing  to  see  but  the  blue 
sky  through  thin  branches,  lay  down  on  the  bank  by  the 
roadside  to  see  if  I could  sleep.  But  I couldn’t,  and  the 
branches  against  the  blue  sky  began  to  interest  me,  motion- 
less as  the  branches  of  a tree  of  Jesse  on  a painted  wdndow. 

Feeling  gradually  somewhat  livelier,  and  that  I wasn’t  go- 
ing to  die  this  time,  and  be  buried  in  the  sand,  though  I 
couldn’t  for  the  present  walk  any  farther,  I took  out  my  book, 
and  began  to  draw  a little  aspen  tree,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
cart-road,  carefully. 

How  I had  managed  to  get  into  that  utterly  dull  cart- 


252 


PR^ETERITA. 


road,  when  there  were  sandstone  rocks  to  be  sought  for,  the 
Fates,  as  I have  so  often  to  observe,  only  know ; but  I was 
never  fortunate  enough  to  find  at  Fontainebleau  any  of  the 
sublimities  which  I hear  vaunted  by  French  artists,  and  which 
disturbed  poor  Evelyn’s  mind  nearly  as  much  as  the  “ horrid 
Alp  ” of  Clifton 

“7th  March  (1644).  I set  forwards  with  some  company 
towards  Fontaine  Bleau,  a sumptuous  palace  of  the  King’s 
like  ours  at  Hampton  Court.  By  the  way  we  passe  through 
a forest  so  prodigiously  encompass’d  with  hideous  rocks  of 
whitish  hard  stone,  heaped  one  on  another  in  mountainous 
heights,  that  I think  the  like  is  nowhere  to  be  found  more 
horrid  and  solitary.  On  the  summit  of  one  of  these  gloomy 
precipices,  intermingled  with  trees  and  shrubs,  the  stones 
hanging  over  and  menacing  ruin,  is  built  an  liermitage.” 

I believe  this  passage  to  be  accurately  characteristic  of  the 
pure  English  mind  about  rocks.  If  they  are  only  big  enough 
to  look  as  if  they  would  break  3'our  head  if  thej’’  fell  on  it,  it 
is  all  an  Englishman  asks,  or  can  understand,  of  them.  The 
modern  thirst  for  self-glorification  in  getting  to  the  top  of 
them  is  indeed  often  accompanied  with  good  interest  in  geo- 
graphical and  other  science  ; and  nice  boys  and  girls  do  enjoy 
their  climbing,  and  lunching  in  fields  of  primula.  But  I 
never  trace  a word  in  one  of  their  journals  of  sorrow  for  the 
destruction  of  any  Swiss  scene  or  Swiss  character,  so  only 
that  they  have  their  own  champagne  at  lunch. 

The  “hideous  rocks”  of  Fontainebleau  were,  I grieve  to 
sa}",  never  hideous  enough  to  please  me.  They  always  seemed 
to  me  no  bigger  than  I could  pack  and  send  home  for  speci- 
mens, had  they  been  worth  carriage  ; and  in  my  savage 
dislike  of  palaces  and  straight  gravel  walks,  I never  found  out 
the  spring  which  was  the  soul  of  the  place.  And  to-day,  I 
missed  rocks,  palace,  and  fountain  all  alike,  and  found  myself 
lying  on  the  bank  of  a cart-road  in  the  sand,  with  no  pros- 
pect whatever  but  that  small  aspen  tree  against  the  blue  sky. 

Languidly,  but  not  idly,  I began  to  draw  it ; and  as  I drew, 
the  languor  passed  away : the  beautiful  lines  insisted  on 
being  traced, — without  weariness.  More  and  more  beautiful 


PONTAINEBLEA  U. 


253 


they  became,  as  each  rose  out  of  the  rest,  and  took  its  place 
in  the  air.  With  wonder  increasing  every  instant,  I saw  that 
they  “ composed  ” themselves,  by  finer  laws  than  any  known 
of  men.  At  last,  the  tree  was  there,  and  everything  that  I 
had  thought  before  about  trees,  nowhere. 

The  Norwood  ivy  had  not  abased  me  in  that  final  manner, 
because  one  had  always  felt  that  ivy  was  an  ornamental 
creature,  and  expected  it  to  behave  prettily,  on  occasion.  But 
tliat  all  the  trees  of  the  wood  (for  I saw  surely  that  my  little 
aspen  was  only  one  of  their  millions)  should  be  beautiful — 
more  than  Gothic  tracery,  more  than  Greek  vase-imagery, 
more  than  the  daintiest  embroiderers  of  the  East  could 
embroider,  or  the  artfullest  painters  of  the  West  could  limn, 

• — this  was  indeed  an  end  to  all  former  thoughts  with  me,  an 
insight  into  a new  sylvan  world. 

Not  sylvan  only.  The  woods,  which  I had  only  looked  on 
as  wilderness,  fulfilled  I then  saw,  in  their  beauty,  the  same 
laws  which  guided  the  clouds,  divided  the  light,  and  balanced 
the  wave.  “He  hatli  made  everything  beautiful,  in  his  time,’' 
became  for  me  thenceforward  the  interpretation  of  the  bond 
between  the  human  mind  and  all  visible  things  ; and  I returned 
along  the  wood-road  feeling  that  it  had  led  me  far  ; — farther 
than  ever  fancy  had  reached,  or  theodolite  measured. 

To  my  sorrow,  and  extreme  surprise,  I find  no  diary  what- 
ever of  the  feelings  or  discoveries  of  this  year.  They  were 
too  many,  and  bewildering,  to  be  written.  I did  not  even 
draw  much, — the  things  I now  saw  were  beyond  drawing, — 
but  took  to  careful  botany,  while  the  month’s  time  set  apart 
for  the  rocks  of  Chamouni  was  spent  in  merely  finding  out 
what  was  to  be  done,  and  where.  By  the  chance  of  guide 
dispensation,  I had  only  one  of  the  average  standard,  Michel 
Bevouassoud,  who  knew  his  waj^  to  the  show  places,  and  little 
more ; but  I got  the  fresh  air  and  the  climbing  ; and  thought 
over  my  Fontainebleau  thoughts,  hj  sweeter  springs.  The 
entry  above  quoted  (p,  240),  of  Dec.  11th,  the  onl}"  one  I can 
find  of  all  the  year’s  journeying,  is  very  notable  to  me,  in 
showing  that  the  impulse  which  threw  the  new  thoughts  into 
the  form  of  “Modern  Painters,”  came  to  me  in  the  fulfilment 


25i 


PR^^TEBITA. 


of  the  one  disagreeable  duty  I persisted  in, — going  to  church ! 
But  it  came  to  me,  two  years  following,  in  my  true  mother- 
town  of  Geneva. 

We  went  home  in  1842  by  the  Ehine  and  Flanders : and  at 
Cologne  and  St.  Quentin  I made  the  last  drawings  ever 
executed  in  my  old  manner.  That  of  the  great  square  at 
Cologne  was  given  to  Osborne  Gordon,  and  remains  I believe 
with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Pritchard.  The  St.  Quentin  has  vanished 
into  space. 

We  returned  once  more  to  the  house  at  Herne  Hill,  and 
the  lovely  drawings  Turner  had  made  for  me,  Ehrenbreitstein 
and  Lucerne,  were  first  hung  in  its  little  front  dining-room. 
But  the  Herne  Hill  days,  and  many  joys  with  them,  were  now 
ended. 

Perhaps  my  mother  had  sometimes — at  Hampton  Court,  or 
Chats  worth,  or  Isola-Bella — admitted  into  her  quiet  soul  the 
idea  that  it  might  be  nice  to  have  a larger  garden.  Some- 
times a gold-tasselled  Oxford  friend  would  come  out  from 
Cavendish  or  Grosvenor  Square  to  see  me  ; and  ^there  was 
only  the  little  back  room  opposite  the  nursery  for  him  to  wash 
his  hands  in.  As  his  bank-balance  enlarged,  even  my  father 
thought  it  possible  that  his  country  customers  might  be  more 
impressed  by  enjoying  their  after-dinner  sherry  wdtli  more 
room  for  their  legs.  And,  now  that  I was  of  age  and  B.A. 
and  so  on — did  not  I also  want  a larger  house  ? 

No,  good  reader  ; but  ever  since  first  I could  drive  a spade, 
I had  wanted  to  dig  a canal,  and  make  locks  on  it,  like  Harry 
in  “Plarry  and  Lucy.”  And  in  the  field  at  the  back  of  the 
Denmark  Hill  house,  now,  in  this  hour  of  all  our  weaknesses, 
oiiered  in  temptation,  I saw  my  Avay  to  a canal  with  any 
number  of  locks  down  toward  Dulwich. 

It  is  very  wonderful  to  me,  looking  back,  to  remember  this, 
and  liow  entirely  boyish — and  very  young-boyish,  too — I was 
still,  in  all  instincts  of  personal  delight ; while  yet,  looking 
out  of  myself,  I saw  farther  than  Kings  of  Naples  or  Cardinals 
of  Rome. 

Yet  there  was  much,  and  very  closely  balanced,  debate, 
before  the  house  was  taken.  My  mother  wisely,  though 


FONTAINEBLEA  U. 


255 


sadly,  said  it  was  too  late  for  her  ; — she  could  not  now  man- 
age a large  garden  : and  my  father,  feeling  his  vanity  had 
more  than  a word  in  the  matter,  besides  all  that  might  rightly 
be  alleged  of  what  was  now  convenient  and  becoming,  hesi- 
tated painfully,  as  he  had  done  about  his  first  Copley  Field- 
ing. 

But  at  last  the  lease  of  the  larger  house  was  bought : and 
everybody  said  how  wise  and  proper  ; and  my  mother  did 
like  arrauging  the  rows  of  pots  in  the  big  greenhouse  ; and 
the  view  from  the  breakfast-room  into  the  field  was  really 
very  lovely.  And  we  bought  three  co\vs,  and  skimmed  our 
own  cream,  and  churned  our  own  butter.  And  there  was  a 
stable,  and  a farmyard,  and  a haystack,  and  a pigsty,  and  a 
j)orter’s  lodge,  where  undesirable  visitoi’s  could  be  stopped 
before  startling  us  with  a knock.  But,  for  all  these  things, 
we  never  were  so  happy  again.  Never  anymore  “ at  home.'’ 

At  Champagnole,  }"es  ; and  in  Chamouni,—  in  La  Cloche, 
at  Dijon, — in  Le  Cygne,  at  Lucerne.  All  these  jnaces  w^ere 
of  the  old  time.  But  thougli  we  had  many  ha]^py  days  in  the 
Denmark  Hill  liouse,  none  of  our  new  ways  ever  wmre  the 
same  to  us  as  the  old  : the  basketfuls  of  peaches  had  not  the 
flavor  of  the  iimiibered  dozen  or  score  ; nor  were  all  the 
a])ples  of  the  great  orchard  worth  a single  dishful  of  the 
Siberian  crabs  of  Herne  Hill. 

And  I never  got  my  canal  dug,  after  all ! Harry’s  making 
the  lock-gates  himself  had  indeed  always  seemed  to  me  too 
magniticent  ! inimitable  if  not  incredible;  but  also,  I had 
]iever,  till  now  that  the  need  came,  entered  into  the  statistics 
of  water-supply.  Tlie  gardeners  wanted  all  that  was  in  the 
butts  for  the  greenhouse.  Nothing  but  a dry  ditch,  incom- 
modious to  the  cows,  I saw  to  be  possible,  and  resigned  m^"- 
self  to  destiny  : yet  the  bewitching  idea  never  v/ent  out  of 
my  head,  and  some  water- works,  on  the  model  of  Fontaine- 
bleau, wmre  verily  set  aflownug — twenty  years  afterward,  as 
will  be  told. 

The  next  year,  there  v/as  travelling  eiiough  for  us  up  and 
down  the  new  garden  walks.  Also,  the  first  volume  of 
“Modern  Painters”  took  the  best  of  the  winter’s  leisure  ; 


256 


PR^TERITA. 


the  summer  was  broken  by  some  formal  term-keeping  at  Ox- 
ford. There  is  nothing  in  diary  worth  noting,  except  a word 
about  Camberwell  church  window,  to  which  I must  return 
ill  connection  with  things  yet  far  ahead. 

The  said  first  volume  must  have  been  out  by  my  father’s 
birthday  ; its  success  was  assured  by  the  end  of  the  year,  and 
on  January  1st,  184J,  my  father  brought  me  in  the  ^Slaver’ 
for  a New  Year’s  gift,” — knowing  well,  this  time,  how  to  please 
me.  I had  it  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  next  morning,  like  my 
own  “ Loch  Achray  ” of  old.  But  the  pleasure  of  one’s  own 
first  painting  everybody  can  understand.  The  pleasure  of  a 
new  Turner  to  me,  nobody  ever  will,  and  it’s  no  use  talking 
of  it. 

For  the  second  volume,  (not  meant  to  be  the  least  like 
what  it  is,)  I wanted  more  Chamouni.  The  journey  of  1844 
was  planned  entirely  for  central  Alps,  and  on  June  1st,  1844, 
we  were  happy  by  Lake  Leman  shore,  again. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

THE  SIMPLON. 

More  and  more  deeply  every  hour,  in  retracing  Alpine 
paths, — by  my  fireside, — the  wonder  grows  on  me,  what 
Heaven  made  the  Alps  for,  and  gave  the  chamois  its  foot,  and 
the  gentian  its  blue, — yet  gave  no  one  the  heart  to  love  them. 
And  in  the  Alps,  why  especially  that  mighty  central  pass  was 
so  divinely  planned,  yet  no  one  to  pass  it  but  against  their 
wills,  till  Napoleon  came,  and  made  a road  over  it. 

Nor  often,  since,  witli  any  joy  ; though  in  truth  there  is  no 
other  such  piece  of  beauty  and  power,  full  of  human  interest 
of  the  most  strangely  varied  kind,  in  all  the  mountain  scenery 
of  the  globe,  as  that  traverse,  with  its  two  terminal  cities, 
Geneva  and  Milan  ; its  two  lovely  lakes  of  approach,  Leman 
and  Maggiore  ; its  two  tremendous  valleys  of  vestibule,  the 
Valais  and  Val  d’Ossola  ; and  its  own,  not  desolate  nor  terri- 
ble, but  wholly  beautiful,  upper  region  of  rose  and  snow. 


THE  SIMPLON. 


257 


Of  my  early  joy  in  Milan,  I have  already  told  ; of  Geneva, 
there  is  no  telling,  though  I must  now  give  what  poor  picture 
I may  of  the  days  we  spent  there,  happy  to  young  and  old 
alike,  again  and  again,  in  ’33,  ’35,  ’42,  and  now,  with  full 
deliberation,  in  ’44,  knowing,  and,  in  their  repetitions  twice, 
and  thrice,  and  four  times,  magnifying,  the  Avell-remem- 
bered  joys.  And  still  I am  more  thankful,  through  every 
year  of  added  life,  that  I was  born  in  London,  near  enough 
to  Geneva  for  me  to  reach  it  easily  ; — and  yet  a city  so  con- 
trary to  everything  Genevoise  as  best  to  teach  me  what  the 
wonders  of  the  little  canton  were. 

A little  canton,  four  miles  square,  and  wdhch  did  not  wish 
to  be  six  miles  square  ! A little  town,  composed  of  a cluster 
of  water-mills,  a street  of  penthouses,  two  wooden  bridges, 
two  dozen  of  stone  houses  on  a little  hill,  and  three  or  four 
perpendicular  lanes  up  and  down  the  hill.  The  four  miles 
of  acreage  round,  in  grass,  with  modest  gardens,  and  farm- 
dwelling houses  ; the  people,  pious,  learned,  and  busy,  to  a 
man,  to  a woman — to  a boy,  to  a girl,  of  them  ; progressing 
to  and  fro  mostly  on  their  feet,  and  only  where  they  had 
business.  And  this  bird’s-nest  of  a place,  to  be  the  centre 
of  religious  and  social  thought,  and  of  physical  beauty,  to 
all  living  Europe  ! That  is  to  say,  thinking  and  designing 
Europe,- — France,  Germany,  and  Italy.  The}^  and  their  pie- 
ties, and  their  prides,  their  arts  and  their  insanities,  their 
waths  and  slaughters,  springing  and  flowering,  building  and 
fortifying,  foaming  and  thundering  round  this  inconceivable 
point  of  patience  : the  most  lovely  spot,  and  the  most  nota- 
ble, without  any  possible  dispute,  of  the  European  universe  ; 
yet  the  nations  do  not  covet  it,  do  not  gravitate  to  it, — what 
is  more  wonderful,  do  not  make  a wilderness  of  it.  They 
fight  their  battles  at  Chalons  and  Leipsic  ; they  build  their 
cotton-mills  on  the  Aire,  and  leave  the  Ehone  running  with  a 
million  of  Aire  power, —all  pure.  They  build  their  pleasure- 
houses  on  Thames  shingle,  and  Seine  mud,  to  look  across  to 
Lambeth,  and — whatever  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine. 
They  found  their  military  powers  in  the  sand  of  Berlin,  and 
leave  this  precipice-guarded  plain  in  peace.  And  yet  it  rules 
17 


25S 


PR^TERITA. 


them, — is  the  focus  of  thought  to  them,  and  of  passion,  of 
science,  and  of  coiitrat  social ; of  rational  conduct,  and  of 
decent — and  other — manners.  Saiissure’s  school  and  Calvin’s, 
— Kousseau’s  and  Byron’s, — Turner’s, — 

And  of  course,  I was  going  to  snj,  mine  ; but  I didn’t  write 
all  that  last  page  to  end  so.  Yet  Geneva  had  better  have 
ended  with  educating  me  and  the  likes  of  me,  instead  of  the 
people  who  have  hold  of  it  now,  Avitb  their  polypous  knots  of 
houses,  communal  with  “London,  Paris,  and  New  York.” 

Beneath  which,  and  on  the  esplanades  of  the  modern  casino, 
New  York  and  London  ]iow  live — no  more  the  Genevese. 
AYhat  their  home  once  was,  I must  try  to  tell,  as  I saw  it. 

First,  it  was  a notable  town  for  keeping  all  its  poor, — inside 
of  it.  In  tlie  very  centre,  where  an  English  towm  has  its  big- 
gest square,  and  its  Exchange  on  the  model  of  the  Parthenon, 
built  for  the  sake  of  the  builder’s  commission  on  the  cost ; 
there,  on  their  little  pile-propped  island,  and  by  the  steep 
lane-sides,  lived  the  Genevoise  poor  ; in  their  garrets, — their 
laborious  upper  spinning  or  waatch-wheel  cutting  rooms, — 
their  dark  niches  aud  angles  of  lane  ; mostly  busy  ; the  in- 
firm and  old  all  seen  to  and  cared  for,  their  porringers  filled 
and  their  pallet-beds  made,  by  household  care. 

But,  outside  the  ramparts,  no  more  poor.  A sputter,  per- 
haps, soutlnvard  along  the  Savoy  road  ; but  in  all  the  cham- 
paign rouiul,  no  mean  row's  of  cubic  lodgings  wuth  Doric 
l^orches  ; no  squfdid  fields  of  mud  and  thistles ; no  deserts  of 
abandoned  brickfield  and  insolvent  kitchen  garden.  On  the 
instant,  outside  Geneva  gates,  j)erfectly  smooth,  clean,  trim- 
liedged  or  prim-walled  country  roads  ; the  main  broad  one 
intent  on  far-aw’ay  things,  its  signal-posts  inscribed  “ Eoute 
de  Paris  branching  from  it,  right  and  left,  a labyrinth  of 
equally  well-kept  ways  for  fine  carriage  wheels,  between  the 
gentlemen’s  houses  wdth  their  farms ; each  having  its  owui 
fifteen  to  tw'enty  to  fifty  acres  of  mostly  meadow,  rich-waving 
al'ways  (in  my  time  for  being  there)  with  grass  and  flowers, 
like  a kaleidoscope.  Stately  plane  trees,  aspen  and  walnut, — 
sometimes  in  avenue, — casting  breezy,  never  gloomy,  shade 
round  the  dwelling-house.  A dwelling-house  indeed,  all  the 


THE  SIMPLON. 


259 


year  round  ; no  travelling  from  it  to  fairer  lands  possible  ; no 
shutting  up  for  seasons  in  town  ; hay-time  and  fruit-time, 
school-time  and  play,  for  generation  after  generation,  within 
the  c-lieerful  white  do»nicile  with  its  green  shutters  and 
shingle  roof, — pinnacled  perhaps,  humorously,  at  tlie  corners, 
glittering  on  the  edges  wdth  silvery  tin.  “ Kept  up  ” the  whole 
j)lace,  and  all  the  “neighbors”  places,  not  ostentatiously,  but 
perfectly  ; enough  gardeners  to  mow,  eiiough  vintagers  to 
}>ress,  enough  nurses  to  nurse  ; no  foxes  to  hunt,  no  birds  to 
shoot ; but  every  household  felicity  jjossible  to  prudence  and 
honor,  felt  and  fullilled  from  infancy  to  age. 

Where  the  grounds  came  down  to  the  Avaterside,  they  were 
mostly  built  out  into  it,  till  the  Avater  Avas  four  or  live  feet 
deep,  lap])ing  up,  or  lashing,  under  breeze,  against  the  terrace 
Avail.  Not  much  boating  ; fancy  wherries,  unmanageable,  or 
too  adventurous,  upon  the  Avild  blue  ; and  Swiss  boating  a 
serious  market  and  trade  business,  unfashionable  in  the  high 
rural  empyrean  of  Geneva.  But  between  the  Hotel  des 
Etrangers,  (one  of  these  country-houses  open  to  the  polite 
stranger,  some  half-mile  out  of  the  gates,  Avhere  Salvador 
took  us  in  ’33  and  ’35)  and  the  towm,  there  Avero  one  or  two 
landing-places  for  the  raft-like  flat  feluccas  ; and  glimpses  of 
the  open  lake  and  things  beyond, — glimpses  only,  shut  off 
quickly  by  garden-walls,  until  one  came  to  the  inlet  of  lakc- 
W'ater  moat  which  bent  itself  under  the  ramparts  back  to  the 
city  gate.  This  Avas  crossed,  for  people  afoot  who  did  not 
like  going  round  to  that  main  gate,  by  the  delicatest  of  fili- 
form suspension  bridges  ; strong  enough  it  looked  io  carry 
a couple  of  lovers  over  in  safety,  or  a nursemaid  and  children, 
but  nothing  heavier.  One  Avas  allowed  to  cross  it  for  a cen- 
time, Avhich  seemed  to  me  always  a most  profitable  transaction, 
the  portress  receiving  placidly  a sort  of  dirty  flattened  six- 
pence, (I  forget  its  name)  and  returning  me  a Avnistcoat- 
pocketful  of  the  loveliest  little  clean-struck  centimes  ; and 
then  one  might  stand  on  the  bridge  any  time,  in  perfect 
quiet.  (The  Genevese  didn’t  like  paying  the  centime,  and 
Avent  round  by  the  gate.)  Tavo  sw^ans,  drifting  about  under- 
neath, over  a couple  of  fathoms  of  purest  green  Avater,  and 


200 


PR^TERITA. 


the  lake  really  opening  from  the  moat,  exactly  where  the 
Chamouni  range  of  aiguilles  rose  beyond  it  far  away.  In  our 
town  walks  we  used  always  to  time  getting  back  to  the  little 
bridge  at  sunset,  there  to  wait  and  watch. 

That  was  the  way  of  things  on  the  north  side  ; on  the 
south,  the  town  is  still,  in  the  main  buildings  of  it,  as  then  ; 
the  group  of  officially  aristocratic  houses  round  the  cathedral 
and  college  presenting  the  same  inaccessible  sort  of  family 
dignity  that  they  do  to-day;  only,  since  then,  the  Geneva 

Liberals Well,  I will  not  say  what  they  have  done  ; the 

main  town  stands  still  on  its  height  of  pebble-gravel,  knit 
almost  into  rock  ; and  still  the  upper  terraces  look  across  the 
variously  mischievous  Liberal  works  to  the  open  southern 
country,  rising  in  steady  slope  of  garden,  orchard,  and  vine- 
yard— sprinkled  with  pretty  farm-houses  and  bits  of  chateau, 
like  a sea  shore  with  shells ; rising  always  steeper  and  steeper, 
till  the  air  gets  rosy  in  the  distance,  then  blue,  and  the  great 
walnut-trees  have  become  dots,  and  the  farmsteads,  minikin 
as  if  they  were  the  fairy-finest  of  models  made  to  be  packed 
in  a box  ; and  then,  instant — above  vineyard,  above  farm- 
stead, above  field  and  wood,  leaps  up  the  Saleve  cliff,  two 
thousand  feet  into  the  air. 

I don’t  think  anybody  who  goes  to  Geneva  ever  sees  the 
Saleve.  For  the  most  part,  no  English  creature  ever  does  see 
farther  than  over  the  way  ; and  the  Saleve,  unless  you  care- 
fully peer  into  it,  and  make  out  what  it  is,  pretends  to  be  noth- 
ing,— a long,  low  swell  like  the  South  Downs,  I fancy  most 
people  take  it  for,  and  look  no  more.  Yet  there  are  few  rocks 
in  the  high  Alps  more  awful  than  the  “ Angle  ” of  the  Saleve, 
at  its  foot— seven  Shakespeare’s  Cliffs  set  one  on  the  top  of 
another,  and  all  of  marble.'* 

On  the  other  side  of  the  high  town  the  houses  stand  closer, 
leaving  yet  space  for  a little  sycamore-shaded  walk,  whence 
one  looks  down  on  the  whole  southern  reach  of  lake,  opening 


* Not  Parian,  indeed,  nor  Carrara,  but  an  extremely  compact  lime- 
stone, in  which  the  compressed  faulted  veins  are  of  marble  indeed,  and 
polish  beautifully. 


THE  SIMPLON. 


261 


wide  to  the  horizon,  and  edged  there  like  the  sea,  but  in  the 
summer  sunshine  looking  as  if  it  was  the  one  well  of  blue 
'which  the  sunbeams  drank  to  make  the  sky  of.  Be^^ond  it, 
ghostly  ranges  of  incredible  mountains — the  Dent  d’Oche, 
and  first  cliffs  toward  Fribourg  ; to  the  west,  the  long  wave 
of  Jura,  fading  into  the  air  above  Neuchatel. 

That  was  the  view  for  full  noon,  when  the  lake  was  bright- 
est and  bluest.  Then  you  fell  down  a perpendicular  lane  into 
the  lower  town  again,  and  you  went  to  Mr.  Bautte’s. 

Virtually  there  was  no  other  jeweller  in  Geneva,  in  the 
great  times.  There  were  some  respectable,  uncompetitive 
shops,  not  dazzling,  in  the  main  street ; and  smaller  ones, 
with  an  average  supply  of  miniature  watches,  that  would  go 
well  for  ten  years  ; and  uncostly,  but  honest,  trinketry.  But 
one  went  to  Mr.  Bautte’s  with  awe,  and  of  necessity,  as  one 
did  to  one’s  bankers.  There  was  scarcely  any  external  sign  of 
Bautte  whatever — a small  brass  plate  at  the  side  of  a narrow 
arched  door,  into  an  alley — into  a secluded  alley — leading 
into  a monastic  courtyard,  out  of  which — or  rather  out  of  the 
alley,  ’^diere  it  opened  to  the  court,  you  ascended  a winding 
stair,  wide  enough  for  two  only,  and  came  to  a green  door, 
swinging,  at  the  top  of  it ; and  there  you  paused  to  summon 
courage  to  enter. 

A not  large  room,  with  a single  counter  at  the  further  side. 
Nothing  shown  on  the  counter.  Tw^o  confidential  attendants 
behind  it,  and — it  might  possibly  be  Mr.  Bautte  ! — or  his  son 
— or  his  partner — or  anyhow  the  Killing  power — -at  his  desk 
beside  the  back  window.  You  told  what  you  wanted  : it 
was  necessary  to  know  your  mind,  and  to  be  sure  you  did 
'u^ant  it ; there  was  no  showing  of  things  for  temptation  at 
Bautte’s.  You  wanted  a bracelet,  a brooch,  a watch — plain 
or  enamelled.  Choice  of  what  was  wanted  was  quietly  given. 
There  were  no  big  stones,  nor  blinding  galaxies  of  wealth. 
Entirely  sound  workmanship  in  the  purest  gold  that  could  be 
worked ; fine  enamel  for  the  most  part,  for  color,  rather  than 
jewels ; and  a certain  Bauttesque  subtlet}”  of  linked  and 
wreathed  design,  which  the  experienced  eye  recognized  when 
worn  in  Paris  or  London.  Absolutely  just  and  moderate 


262 


PR^TERITA. 


price  ; -wear, — to  the  end  of  your  days.  You  came  away  with 
a sense  of  duty  fulfilled,  of  treasure  possessed,  and  of  a new 
foundation  to  the  respectability  of  your  family. 

You  returned  into  the  light  of  the  open  street  with  a bliss- 
ful sense  of  a parcel  being  made  up  to  be  sent  after  you,  and 
in  the  consequently  calm  expatiation  of  mind,  went  usually  to 
watch  the  Rhone. 

Bautte’s  was  in  the  main  street,  out  of  which  one  caught 
glimpses,  down  the  short  cross  ones  of  the  passing  water,  as 
at  Sandgate,  or  the  like  fishing  towns,  one  got  peeps  of  the 
sea.  With  twenty  steps  you  were  beside  it. 

For  all  other  rivers  there  is  a surface,  and  an  underneath, 
and  a vaguely  displeasing  idea  of  the  bottom.  But  the 
Rhone  flows  like  one  lambent  jewel ; its  surface  is  nowhere, 
its  ethereal  self  is  everywhere,  the  iridescent  rush  and  trans- 
lucent strength  of  it  blue  to  the  shore,  and  radiant  to  the 
depth. 

Fifteen  feet  thick,  of  not  flowing,  but  flying  w^ater ; not 
water,  neither, — melted  glacier,  rather,  one  should  call  it ; the 
force  of  the  ice  is  with  it,  and  the  wreathing  of  the  clouds, 
the  gladness  of  the  sky,  and  the  continuance  of  Time. 

Waves  of  clear  sea,  are,  indeed,  lovely  to  w^atch,  but  the}'  are 
always  coming  or  gone,  never  in  any  taken  shape  to  be  seen 
for  a second.  But  here  was  one  mighty  wave  that  was  always 
itself,  and  every  fluted  swirl  of  it,  constant  as  the  w'reathing 
of  a shell.  No  wasting  away  of  the  fallen  foam,  no  pause  for 
gathering  of  power,  no  helpless  ebb  of  discouraged  recoil  ; 
but  alike  through  bright  day  and  lulling  night,  the  never- 
pausing  plunge,  and  never-fading  flash,  and  never-hushing 
whisper,  and,  while  the  sun  was  up,  the  ever-answering  glow 
of  unearthly  aquamarine,  ultramarine,  violet-blue,  gentian- 
blue,  peacock-blue,  river-of-paradise  blue,  glass  of  a painted 
window  melted  in  the  sun,  and  the  witch  of  the  Alps  flinging 
the  spun  tresses  of  it  for  ever  from  her  snow. 

The  innocent  way,  too,  in  which  the  river  used  to  stop  to 
look  into  every  little  corner.  Great  torrents  always  seem 
angry,  and  great  rivers  too  often  sullen  ; but  there  is  no 
anger,  no  disdain,  in  the  Rhone.  It  seemed  as  if  the  moun- 


THE  SIMPLON. 


263 


tain  stream  was  in  mere  bliss  at  recovering  itself  again  out  of 
the  lake-sleep,  and  raced  because  it  rejoiced  in  racing,  fain 
yet  to  return  and  stay.  There  were  pieces  of  wave  that  danced 
all  day  as  if  Perdita  were  looking  on  to  learn  ; there  were 
little  streams  that  skipped  like  lambs  and  leaped  like  chamois  ; 
there  were  pools  that  shook  the  sunshine  ail  through  them, 
and  were  rippled  in  layers  of  overlaid  ripples,  like  crystal 
sand  ; there  were  currents  that  twisted  the  light  into  golden 
braids,  and  inlaid  the  threads  with  turquoise  enamel ; there 
were  strips  of  stream  that  had  certainly  above  the  lake  been 
mill-streams,  and  were  looking  busily  for  mills  to  turn  again  ; 
there  were  shoots  of  stream  that  had  once  shot  fearfully  into 
the  air,  and  now  sprang  up  again  laughing  that  they  had  only 
fallen  a foot  or  two  ; — and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  gay  glitter- 
ing and  eddied  lingering,  the  noble  bearing  by  of  the  midmost 
depth,  so  mighty,  yet  so  terrorless  and  harmless,  with  its 
swallows  skimming  instead  of  petrels,  and  the  dear  old  de- 
crepit town  as  safe  in  the  embracing  sweep  of  it  as  if  it  were 
set  ill  a brooch  of  sapphire. 

And  the  day  went  on,  as  the  river  ; but  I never  felt  that  I 
wasted  time  in  watching  the  Khone.  One  used  to  get  giddy 
sometimes,  or  discontentedly  envious  of  the  fish.  Then  one 
went  back  for  a walk  in  the  penthouse  street,  long  ago  gone. 
There  was  no  such  other  street  anywhere.  Penthouses  five 
stories  high,  not  so  much  for  the  protection  of  the  people  in 
the  street  as  to  keep  the  plash  of  heavy  rain  from  the  house 
windows,  so  that  these  might  be  the  more  safely  open.  Beam- 
pillars  of  squared  pine,  with  one  cross-tie  beam,  the  undeco- 
rative  structural  arrangement,  Swiss  to  the  very  heart  and 
pitch  of  it,  picturesque  in  comfort,  stately  and  ancient  without 
decay,  and  rough,  here  in  mid  Geneva,  more  than  in  the  hill 
solitudes. 

We  arrived  at  Geneva  on  1st  June,  1844,  with  plan  of  an- 
other month  at  Chamouni ; and  fine  things  afterward,  which 
also  came  prosperously  to  pass.  I had  learned  to  draw  now 
with  great  botanical  precision;  and  could  color  delicately,  to 
a point  of  high  finish.  I was  interested  in  everything,  from 
clouds  to  lichens.  Geneva  was  more  wonderful  to  me,  the 


264 


PRu^TEBITA. 


Alps  more  living  and  mighty,  than  ever ; Chamouni  more 
peaceful. 

We  reached  the  Prieure  on  the  Gth  June,  and  found  poor 
Michel  Devouassoud’s  climbing  days  ended.  He  had  got  a 
chill,  and  a cough  ; medicined  himself  with  absinthe,  and  Vv^as 
now  fast  dying.  The  body  of  guides  had  just  sustained  a 
graver  loss,  by  the  superannuation,  according  to  law,  in  his 
sixtieth  year,  of  Joseph  Couttet,  the  Captain  of  Mont  Blanc, 
and  bravest  at  once  and  most  sagacious  of  the  old  school 
of  guides.  Partly  in  regard  for  the  old  man,  partly  in 
respect  for  us,  now  favorably  known  in  Chamouni,  the  law 
was  relaxed  by  the  Chef  des  Guides  in  our  favor,  and  Couttet 
came  to  us  on  the  morning  of  the  7th  of  June.  My  father 
explained  to  him  that  he  wanted  me  taken  charge  of  on  the 
hills,  and  not  permitted  in  any  ambitious  attempts,  or  taken 
into  any  dangerous  places ; and  that,  from  what  he  had  heard 
of  Couttet’s  trustworthiness,  and  knowledge  of  his  mountain, 
he  had  no  doubt  that  I should  be  safe  with  him,  and  might 
learn  more  under  his  tutelage,  in  safety,  than  by  the  most 
daring  expeditions  under  inferior  masters.  Couttet  said  little, 
but  accepted  the  charge  with  a kindly  glitter  in  his  eyes,  and  a 
cheerful  word  or  two,  signifying  that  my  father  need  not  fear 
for  me  ; and  we  set  out  together  for  the  base  of  the  Buet, — I 
on  niLileback,  he  walking. 

For  thirty  years  he  remained  my  tutor  and  companion. 
Had  he  been  my  drawing-master  also,  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  : if  my  work  pleased  Couttet,  I found  afterward 
it  was  always  good  ; and  he  knew  perfectly  when  I was  trying 
vainly  to  do  what  I could  not,  or  foolishly  what  no  one  else 
would  care  for. 

The  month  at  Chamouni,  however,  passed  with  his  approval, 
and  to  m}^  perfect  benefit.  I made  two  foreground  studies  in 
color,  of  considerable  beauty  ; and,  under  his  teaching,  began 
to  use  my  alpenstock  easily,  and  to  walk  with  firmness. 

Of  our  habitual  Chamouni  life — papa’s,  mamma’s,  and  mine 
— I shall  give  account  further  on : I take  from  this  year’s 
diary  only  the  note  on  first  reaching  the  bases  of  the  aiguilles. 

“ At  last,  on  steep  inclined  planes  of  snow,  reached  the  base 


THE  SIMPLON. 


265 


of  the  little  Charmoz  ; but  was  amazed  to  find  that  the  size  of 
the  aiguilles  seemed  to  diminish  with  every  step  of  approach, 
after  a certain  point,  and  that,  thus  seen  (the  aiguille) 
Blaitiere,  though  still  3,000  feet  above  us,  looked  a mere  rock, 
asceiidable  in  a quarter  of  an  hour.  Of  course,  after  being 
used  to  the  higher  rocks,  one  begins  to  measure  them  in  their 
own  way  ; but  where  there  is  nothing  to  test  scale — where  the 
air  is  perfectly  mistless,  and  the  mountain  masses  are  divided 
info  sheets  whose  edgea  are  the  height  of  Dover  cliffs,  it  is 
impossible  effectually  to  estimate  their  magnitude  but  by 
trving  them.” 

This  bit  of  moonlight  is  perhaps  worth  keeping : “ 28th 
June,  half-past  ten. — I never  was  dazzled  by  mooniiglit  until 
now  ; but  as  it  rose  from  behind  the  Mont  Blanc  du  Tacul,  the 
full  moon  almost  blinded  me  : it  burst  forth  into  the  sky  like 
a vast  star.  For  an  hour  before,  the  aiguilles  had  appeared 
as  dark  masses  against  a sky  looking  as  transparent  as  clear 
sea,  edged  at  their  summits  with  fleeces  of  cloud  breaking  into 
glorious  spray  and  foam  of  white  fire.  A meteor  fell  over  the 
Dome  as  the  moon  rose  : now  it  is  so  intensely  bright  that  I 
cannot  see  the  Mont  Blanc  underneath  it ; the  form  is  lost  in 
its  light.” 

Many  and  many  an  hour  of  precious  time  and  perfect 
sight  was  spent,  during  these  years,  in  thus  watching  skies  ; 
much  was  written  which  would  be  useful — if  I took  a year  to 
put  it  together, — to  myself  ; but,  in  the  present  smoky  world, 
to  no  other  creature  : and  much  was  learned,  which  is  of  no 
use  now  to  anybody  ; for  to  me  it  is  only  sorrowful  memory, 
and  to  others,  an  old  man’s  fantasy. 

AVe  left  Chamouni  on  4th  July  ; on  the  8th  I find  this  en- 
try at  St.  Gingolph  : “ AVe  dined  late,  which  kept  me  later 
from  my  walk  than  I like,  and  it  was  wet  with  recent  rain  ; but 
the  glades  of  greensv/ard  under  groves  of  Spanish  chestnut 
all  the  greener  for  it.  Such  richness  I never  saw  in  Italy  ; 
the  liay  just  cut,  leaving  the  grass  crisp  and  short  ; the  gray 
trunks  and  rich  leaves  mixed  with  mossy  rock,  and  the  cliffs 
above,  nobler  than  Amalfi  : the  sunset  sent  down  rays  of 
opaque  gold  between  me  and  the  Jura,  bringing  out  the  sue- 


266 


PR^^TERITA. 


cessive  rises  of  the  Pcays  de  Vaud : the  Jura  a golden  shadow, 
sharp-edged  and  baseless  in  the  sky.” 

Hence,  we  crossed  the  Simplon  to  Baveno  and  back, — for 
the  Simplon’s  and  Lago  Maggiore’s  sake  only. 

“ Baveno,  jLily  12th. — I have  more  feeling  for  Italy  than 
ever,  but  it  makes  me  deeply  sad.  The  vines  and  pasture 
about  this  place  make  it  a Paradise ; the  people  are  fine- 
featured,  and  singularly  graceful  in  motion  ; but  there  is  every 
appearance  of  hopeless  vice.  Four  men  have  been  playing 
cards  and  drinking,  without  stirring,  in  the  inn-yard  since 
twelve  o’clock  (noon.  I had  come  in  from  an  evening  walk), 
and  the  gardens  and  enclosed  spots  of  ground  are  foul  as 
dunghills.  The  Isola  Bella  is  fast  going  to  decay — all  the 
stucco  of  it  green,  damp,  shattered,  covered  with  weeds 
and  dead  leaves ; }^et  the  flowers  and  foliage  of  surpassing 
beaut}’.” 

And  to  this  day,  the  uselessness  of  San  Carlo’s  memory  is 
to  me  one  of  the  entirely  wonderfullest  things  in  Catholic 
liistory  ; — that  Koine  should  go  on  sending  missionaries  to 
China,  and,  within  a thousand  yards  across  the  water  from 
St.  Carlo’s  isle,  leave  the  people  of  her  own  Italy’s  Garden  of 
Eden  in  guilt  and  misery.  I call  the  Lago  Maggiore  district 
the  Eden  of  Italy  ; for  there  are  no  solfataras  there,  no  earth- 
quakes, no  pestiferous  marsh,  no  fever-striking  sunshine. 
Purest  air,  richest  earth,  loveliest  wave  ; and  the  same  noble 
race  that  founded  the  architecture  of  Italy  at  Como. 

Left  to  die,  like  the  green  lizards,  in  the  blind  clefts  of 
their  rocks,  whence  they  see  no  God. 

“Village  of  Simplon,  15th  June. — At  eight  this  evening 
I was  sitting  on  the  highest  col  of  the  Simplon,  watching  the 
light  die  on  the  Breithorn  ; nothing  round  me  but  rock  and 
lichen,  except  one  purple  flower,”  (colored  and  very  accurate 
drawing,  at  the  side,  of  Linaria  Alpina,)  “ and  the  forget-me- 
not,  which  grows  everywhere.  My  walk  home  was  very  lovely, 
star  after  star  coining  out  above  my  head,  the  white  hills 
gleaming  among  them  ; the  gulph  of  pines,  w’ith  the  torrent, 
black  and  awful  below ; lights  breaking  softly  through  cot- 
tage windows. 


THE  SIMPLON. 


267 


“ Cassiopeia  is  rising  above  a piny  mountain,  exactly  oppo- 
site my  window.” 

The  linaria  must  have  been  brought  “ home  ” (the  Simplon 
village  inn  was  already  more  that  to  me  than  ever  Denmark 
Hill),  and  painted  next  morning — it  could  not  have  been  so 
rightly  colored  at  night ; also  the  day  had  been  a heavy  one. 
At  six,  morning,  I had  visited  Signor  Zauetti,  and  reviewed 
his  collection  of  pictures  on  Isola  Pescatore  ; walked  up  most 
of  the  defile  of  Gondo  ; and  the  moment  we  got  to  the  Sim- 
plon village,  dashed  off  to  catch  the  sunset  from  the  col  ; five 
miles  up  hill  against  time,  (and  walk  against  time  up  a regu- 
lar slope  of  eight  feet  in  the  hundred  is  the  most  trying  foot- 
work I know,)  five  miles  back  under  the  stars,  with  the  hills 
not  wider  but  among  them,  and  careful  entry,  of  which  I have 
only  given  a sentence,  make  up  a day  which  shows  there 
was  now  no  farther  need  to  be  alarmed  about  my  health.  My 
good  father,  who  was  never  well  in  the  high  air,  and  hated 
the  chills  from  patches  of  melting  snow,  stayed,  nevertheless, 
all  next  day  at  the  village,  to  let  me  climb  the  long-coveted 
peak  west  of  the  Simplon  col,  which  forms  the  great  precipice 
on  the  Brieg  side.  “It  commanded  the  Valais  far  down,  the 
Bernese  Alps  in  their  whole  extent,  and  two  great  raountains 
beyond  the  valley  of  Saas.”  These  were  the  Weisshorn,  and 
lower  peak  near  Zermatt. 

Tliat  evening  James  Forbes  and  his  wife  were  with  us  in 
the  otherwise  untenanted  salle-a-manger  (see  “Deucalion,” 
Chap.  X.),  and  next  morning,  tlie  17th,  “ I set  oil  at  six  to 
visit  the  Pere  Barras,  formerly  Clavendier  of  the  great  St. 
Bernard,  now  at  the  monastery  of  the  Simplon.”  “ On 
the  Sempione,”  (I  meant  the  Fletscli-horn,)  “a  field  of  cirri, 
bounded  by  a contour  like  that  of  common  cirrostrati,  convex 
and  fishy,  but  composed  of  the  most  exquisite  sandy  and  silky 
forms,  all  in  most  rapid  motion,  but  forming  and  vanishing, 
as  usual,  exactly  at  the  same  point,  so  that  tlie  mass  was  sta- 
tionary. Reached  the  col  in  two  hours  of  very  slow  waalking, 
and  breakfasted  with  the  Father.  He  showed  me  the  spot 
where  the  green  actynolite  is  found,  directly  behind  the  con- 
vent. One  of  his  dogs  saw  him  with  his  hat  on,  and  waited 


268 


PR^TEBITA, 


in  tlie  passage,  barking  furiously  with  delight.  He  parted 
from  me  half  a mile  down  on  this  side  (Brieg  side),  and  I 
waited  at  the  second  gallery  for  the  carriage.” 

“lOthJul}',  Zermatt. — Clouds  on  the  Matterhorn  all  day 
till  sunset,  when  there  were  playing  lights  over  the  sky,  and 
the  IMatterhorn  appeared  in  full  ruby,  with  a wreath  of  crim- 
son cloud  drifting  from  its  top.” 

That  day  Gordon  was  to  come  up  from  Chamouni  to  meet 
us  ; he  had  slept  at  Visp,  and  vv^as  first  at  Zermatt.  Just  as 
w^e  came  in  sight  of  the  Matterhorn  he  met  us,  with  his  most 
settledly  practical  and  constitutional  face — 

“Yes,  the  Matterhorn  is  all  very  fine  ; but  do  you  know 
there’s  nothing  to  eat  ? ” 

“Nonsense  ; we  can  eat  anything  here.” 

“ Well,  the  black  bread’s  two  months  old,  and  there’s  noth- 
ing else  but  potatoes.” 

“ There  must  be  milk,  anyhow.” 

Yes,  there  was  milk,  he  supposed. 

“You  can  sop  your  bread  in  it  then;  what  could  be 
mcer?” 

But  Gordon’s  downcast  mien  did  not  change  ; and  I had 
to  admit  myself,  when  supper-time  came,  that  one  might 
almost  as  hoj^elessly  have  sopped  the  Matterhorn  as  the 
loaf. 

Thus  tlie  Christian  p>easant  had  lived  in  the  Alps,  un thought 
of,  for  two  thousand  years — since  Christ  broke  bread  for  His 
multitude  ; and  lived  thus  under  the  direct  care  of  the  Cath- 
olic Church — for  Sion,  the  capital  of  the  Valais,  is  one  of  the 
grandest  of  old  bishoprics  ; and  just  below  this  valley  of 
black  bread,  the  little  mountain  towns  of  Visp  and  Brieg  are 
more  groups  of  tinkling  towers  and  convent  cloisters  than 
civic  dwelling-places.  As  for  the  Catholic  State,  for  a thou- 
sand year^,  while  at  every  sunset  Monte  Rosa  glowed  across 
the  whole  Lombard  plain,  not  a Lombard  noble  knew  where 
the  mountain  was. 

Yet,  it  may  be,  I err  in  my  pity.  I have  many  things  yet 
to  say  of  the  Valais  ; meantime  this  passage  from  Saussure  re- 
cords a social  state  in  1796,  which,  as  compared  with  that  of 


THE  SIMPLOK, 


269 


the  poor  in  our  great  capitals,  is  one  neither  of  discomfort  nor 
disgrace  : 

‘•'La  sobriete,  compagiie  ordinaire  de  I’amoiir  du  travail,  est 
encore  mie  qualite  remarquable  des  habitants  de  ces  valises. 
Ce  pain  de  seigie,  dont  j ai  parlo,  qu’on  ne  mange  que  six  mois 
apves  qu’il  est  cuit,  on  le  ramollit  dans  dii  petit  lait  ou  dans 
dll  lait  de  beurre,  et  cette  espece  de  soiipe  fait  leur  priiicipale 
nouLTiture  ; le  fromage  et  mi  pen  de  vieille  vacbe  ou  de  chevre 
salees,  se  reserveiit  pour  les  jours  de  fete  ou  pour  les  temps  de 
grands  travaux  ; car  pour  la  viande  fraiche,  ils  n’en  man  gent 
jamais,  c’est  uii  mets  trop  dispendieux.  Les  gens  riches  du 
pays  vivent  avec  la  mome  economie  ; je  voyois  notre  hdte  do 
IVIacugnaga,  qui  n’etoit  rien  moins  que  pauvre,  aller  tons  les 
soil's  prendre,  dans  un  en droit  ferine  a clef,  une  pincee  d’aulx 
dont  il  distribuoit  gravement  une  gousse  a sa  femme,  etautant 
a chacun  de  ses  enfants,  et  cette  gousse  d’ail  etoit  rassaisonne- 
ment  unique  d’un  morceau  de  pain  sec  qu’ils  brisoient  entre 
deux  pierres,  & qu’ils  mangeoient  pour  leur  souper,  Ceux 
d’entr’eux  qui  negocient  au-dehors,  viennent  au  moins  une 
fois  tons  les  deux  ans  passer  quelques  mois  dans  leur  village  ; 
et  quoique  hors  de  chez  eux  ils  prennent  riiabitude  d'une 
meilleure  nourriture,  ils  se  remettent  sans  peine  a celle  de  leur 
jiays,  et  ne  le  quittent  qu’avec  un  extreme  regret ; j’ai  etc 
temoin  d’un  ou  deux  de  ces  departs,  qui  m’ont  attendri 
j Lisqu’aux  larmes,  ” 

By  the  morning,  however,  our  hosts  had  found  some  meat 
for  the  over-greedy  foreigners,  and  the  wine  was  good  enough  ; 
but  it  was  no  place  for  papa  and  mamma  to  stay  in  ; and, 
bravado  apart,  I liked  black  bread  no  better  tiian  they.  So 
we  went  up  to  the  Riffelberg,  where  I saw  that  on  the  north 
Monte  Rosa  was  only  a vast  source  of  glacier,  and,  as  a moun- 
tain, existed  only  for  tlie  Italian  side  ; the  Matterhorn  was  too 
much  of  an  Egyptian  obelisk  to  please  me  (I  trace  continually 
the  tacit  reference  in  my  Cumberland-built  soul  to  moorish 
Skiddaw  and  far-sweeping  Saddleback  as  the  projDer  types  of 
majestic  form)  ; and  I went  down  to  Visp  again  next  day  with- 
out lamentation  : my  mother,  sixty-three  on  next  2d  Septem- 
ber, walking  with  me  the  ten  miles  from  St.  Nicholas  to  Visp 


270 


PR^TERITA. 


as  lijvhtly  as  a girl.  And  the  old  people  went  back  to  Brieg 
with  me,  that  I might  climb  the  Bell  Alp  (then  unknown), 
whence  I drew  the  panoramti  of  the  Simplon  and  Bernese 
range,  now  in  Walkley  Museum.  Bat  the  more  I got,  the 
more  I asked.  After  drawing  the  Weisshorn  and  Aletsch-horii, 
I wanted  to  see  the  Aiguille  Verte  again,  and  was  given  another 
fortnight  for  Chamouni ; the  old  people  staying  at  tlie  Trois 
Couronnes  of  Vevay.  I spent  the  days  usefully,  going  first  up 
to  the  base  of  the  Aiguille  d’Argentiere,  which  commands  the 
glorious  white  ocean  of  the  Tours  glacier  below,  and,  opposite, 
the  four  precipices  of  the  Aiguille  Verte  on  its  northeast  flank  ; 
and  that  day,  27th  July,  we  saw  a herd  of  more  than  thirty 
chamois  on  the  Argentiere.  “Pour  les  voir,  faut  aller  ou  ils 
sont,”  said  Couttet ; and  he  might  have  added,  where  other 
living  things  are  not ; for,  whether  by  shepherd  or  traveller, 
the  snows  round  the  Aiguilles  of  Chardonnet  and  Argentiere 
are  the  least  trodden  of  all  the  Mont  Blanc  fields.  The  herd 
was  in  three  groups,  twelve  in  one  of  them  only  ; and  did  not 
put  itself  to  speed,  but  retired  slowly  when  we  got  within  a 
quarter  of  a mile  of  them,  each  stopping  to  look  back  from  the 
ridge  behind  which  they  disappeared. 

“Iceland  moss”  (says  the  diary),  “in  enormous  quantities 
among  the  Alpine  roses,  above  the  Argentiere  glacier — not 
growing  at  all,  so  far  as  I recollect,,  but  on  the  hills  on  the 
northeast  of  the  valley.  Where  we  took  the  snow,  the  top 
of  the  glacier”  (Tours)  “was  wreathed  in  vast  surges  which 
took  us  from  twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour  (each)  to  climb, 
— green  lovely  lakes  in  their  hollows,  no  crevices.”  On  the 
29th  July  I went  up  the  Buet,  and  down  to  Sixt,  where  I 
found  myself  very  stiff  and  tired,  and  determined  that  the 
Alps  were,  on  the  whole,  best  seen  from  below.  And  after  a 
walk  to  the  Fer-a-cheval,  considering  the  wild  strawberries 
there  to  taste  of  slate,  I went  rather  penitently  down  to 
Geneva  again. 

Feeling  also  a little  ashamed  of  myself  before  papa — in  the 
consciousness  that  all  his  pining  in  cold  air,  and  dining  on 
black  bread,  and  waiting,  day  after  day,  not  without  anxiety, 
while  I rambled  he  knew  not  whither,  had  not  in  the  least 


THE  SIM  PLOW. 


271 


advanced  the  object  nearest  liis  lieart, — the  second  volume  of 
‘‘Modern  Painters.”  I had,  on  the  contrary,  been  acutely 
and  minutely  at  work  in  quite  other  directions — felt  tempted 
now  to  write  on  Alpine  botany,  or  devote  myself  to  painting 
myrtilies  and  mica-slate  for  the  rest  of  my  dfiys.  Tiie  Turner 
chann  was  indeed  as  potent  as  ever;  but  I felt  that  other 
powers  were  now  telling  on  me  besides  his, — even  beyond 
his  ; not  in  delight,  but  in  vital  strengdh  ; and  that  no  word 
more  could  bo  written  of  him,  till  I had  tried  the  range  of 
these. 

It  surprises  me  to  find,  by  entries  at  Paris  (which  I was 
reasonable  enough  now  to  bear  the  sight  of  again),  in  August 
of  this  year,  how  far  I had  advanced  in  picture  knowledge 
since  tlie  Roman  da^^s;  progress  which  I see  no  ground  for, 
and  remember  iio  steps  of,  — except  onl^''  a lesson  given  me  by 
George  Richmond  at  one  of  Mr.  Rogers’s  breakfasts  (the  old 
man  used  to  ask  me,  finding  me  always  reverent  to  him,  joy- 
ful in  liis  pictures,  and  sometimes  amusing,  as  an  object  of 
cmlosiiy  to  his  guests) — date  uncertain,  but  probably  in  1812. 
Until  that  year,  Rubens  had  remained  the  type  of  color  power 
to  me,  and  (p.  222  above)  Titian’s  flesh  tints  of  little  worth  ! 
But  that  morning,  as  I vv^as  getting  talkative  over  the  wild 
Rubens  sketch,  (AVar  or  Discord,  or  Victory  or  the  Furies,  I 
forget  \vhat,)  Richmond  said,  pointing  to  the  Veronese  be- 
neath it,  “ Why  are  you  not  looking  at  this,— so  much  greater 
in  manner?”  “Greater, — how?”  I asked,  in  surprise;  “it 
seesns  to  me  quite  tame  beside  the  Rubens.”  “That  may 
be,”  said  Richmond,  “but  the  Veronese  is  true,  the  other 
violently  conventional.”  “In  what  way  true?”  I asked,  still 
not  understanding.  “AATll,”said  Richmond,  “compare  the 
pure  shavlows  on  the  flesh,  in  Veronese,  and  its  clear  edge, 
with  Rubens’s  ochre  and  vermilion,  and  outline  of  asphalt.” 

No  more  wais  needed.  From  that  moment,  I saw  what 
was  meant  by  Venetian  color;  yet  during  1843,  and  early 
1844,  was  so  occupied  with  “Modern  Painters,”  degree-get- 
ting, and  studies  of  foliage  and  foreground,  that  I cannot 
understand  how  I had  reached,  in  picture  knowledge,  the 
point  shown  by  these  following  entries,  of  which  indeed  the 


272 


PRETERIT  A. 


first  shows  that  the  gain  surprised  me  at  the  time,  but  fool- 
ishl}^  regards  it  only  as  a change  coming  to  pass  in  the  Louvre 
on  the  instant,  and  does  not  recognize  it  as  the  result  of 
growth : the  fact  being,  I suppose,  that  the  habit  of  looking 
for  true  color  in  nature  had  made  me  sensitive  to  the  modesty 
and  dignity  of  hues  in  painting  also,  before  possessing  no 
charm  for  me. 

“Aug.  17th. — I have  had  a change  wrought  in  me,  and  a 
strong  one,  by  this  visit  to  the  Louvre,  and  know  not  how  far 
it  may  go,  chiefly  in  my  full  understanding  of  Titian,  John 
Bellini,  and  Perugino,  and  being  able  to  abandon  everything 
for  them  ; or  rather,  being  i^aable  to  look  at  anything  else.” 

I allow  the  following  technical  note  only  for  proof  of  the 
length  I had  got  to.  There  shall  be  no  more  of  the  kind  let 

into  PniETEKITA. 

“ 1252  (‘  The  Entombment  ’)  is  the  finest  Titian  in  the 
gallery, — glowing,  simple,  broad,  and  grand.  It  is  to  be  op- 
posed to  1251  (‘The  Flagellation’),  in  which  the  shades  are 
brown  instead  of  gra3%  the  outlines  strong  brown  lines,  the 
draperies  broken  up  by  folds,  the  lights  very  round  and  vivid, 
and  foiled  by  deep  shades,  the  flesh  forms,  the  brightest 
lights,  and  the  draperies  subdued. 

“ In  1252  every  one  of  these  conditions  is  reversed.  Even 
the  palest  flesh  is  solemn  and  dark,  in  juxtaposition  with 
golden  white  drapeiy;  all  the  masses  broad  and  flat,  the 
shades  gray,  the  outlines  chaste  and  severe.  It  may  be  taken 
as  an  example  of  the  highest  dignity  of  expression  wrought 
out  by  mere  grandeur  of  color  and  composition. 

“ I found  myself  finally  in  the  Louvre,  fixed  by  this  Titian, 
and  turning  to  it,  and  to  the  one  (picture),  exactly  opposite, 
‘ John  and  Gentile  Bellini,’  by  John  Bellini.  I was  a long 
time  hesitating  between  this  and  Kaphael’s  dark  portrait;  but 
decided  for  the  John  Bellini. 

“Aug.  18th. — To-morrow  we  leave.  I have  been  watching 
the  twilight  on  the  Tuileries,  which  was  very  grand  and 
clear  ; and  planning  works.  I shall  try  to  paint  a Madonna 
some  day,  I believe.” 


THE  CAMFO  BANTO. 


2t3 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 

The  summer’s  work  of  1844,  so  far  from  advancing  the  de- 
sign of  “Modern  Painters,”  had  thrown  me  off  it— first  into 
fine  botany,  then  into  difficult  geology,  and  lastl}^  as  that 
entry  about  the  Madonna  shows,  into  a fit  of  figure  study 
which  meant  much.  It  meant,  especially,  at  last  some  look- 
ing into  ecclesiastical  history,^ — some  notion  of  the  merit  of 
fourteenth  century  painting,  and  the  total  abandonment  of 
Rubens  and  Rembrandt  for  the  Venetian  school.  Which,  the 
reader  will  please  observe,  signified  not  merely  the  advance 
in  sense  of  color,  but  in  perception  of  truth  and  modesty  in 
light  and  shade.  Aud  on  getting  home,  I felt  that  in  the 
cyclone  of  confused  new  knowledge,  this  was  the  thing  first 
to  be  got  firm. 

Scarcely  any  book  writing  was  done  that  winter, — and  there 
are  no  diaries ; but,  for  the  first  time,  I took  up  Turner’s 
“Liber  Studiorum  ” instead  of  engravings;  mastered  its 
principles,  practised  its  method,  and  by  spring-time  in  1845 
was  able  to  study  from  nature  accurately  in  full  chiaroscuro, 
with  a good  frank  power  over  the  sepia  tinting. 

I must  liave  read  also,  that  winter,  Rio’s  “Poesie  Chre- 
tienne,”  and  Lord  Lindsay’s  introduction  to  his  “Christian 
Art.”  And  perceiving  thus,  in  some  degree,  what  a blind  bat 
and  puppy  I had  been,  all  through  Italy,  determined  that 
at  least  I must  see  Pisa  and  Florence  again  before  writing 
another  word  of  “Modern  IMinters.” 

How  papa  and  mamma  took  this  new  vagary,  I have  no 
recollection  ; resignedly,  at  least : perhaps  they  also  had  some 
notion  that  I might  think  differently,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped 
in  a more  orthodox  ami  becoming  manner,  after  another  sight 
of  the  Tribune.  At  all  events,  the^^  concluded  to  give  me  my 
own  way  entirely  this  time  ; and  what  time  I chose.  My 
health  caused  them  no  farther  anxiety  ; they  could  trust  my 
word  to  take  care  of  myself  every  day,  just  the  same  as  if  I 
18 


274 


PR^TERITA. 


v>^ere  coming  home  to  tea  : my  mother  was  satisfied  of  Cout- 
tet’s  skill  as  a pli3^sician,  and  care,  if  needed,  as  a nurse  ; — he 
was  engaged  for  the  summer  in  those  capacities, — and,  about 
the  first  week  in  April,  I found  myself  dining  on  a trout  of 
the  Ain,  at  Champagnole  ; with  Switzerland  and  Italy  at  my 
feet — for  to-morrow. 

Curiously,  the  principal  opposition  to  this  unprincipled 
escapade  had  been  made  b}^  Turner.  He  knew  that  one  of 
my  chief  objects  was  to  see  the  motives  of  his  last  sketches 
on  the  St.  Gothard  ; and  he  feared  my  getting  into  some 
scrape  in  the  then  disturbed  state  of  the  cantons.  He  had 
probably  himself  seen  some  of  their  doings  in  1843,  when 
“la  vieille  Suisse  prit  les  armes,  prevint  les  Bas  Valaisans,  qui 
furent  vaincus  et  massacres  au  Pont  du  Trient,  pres  de  Mar- 
tigny  ; ” * and  again  an  expedition  of  the  Corps  Francs  of  tlie 
liberal  cantons  “pour  expulser  les  Jesuites,  et  renverser  le 
gouvernement,”at  Lucerne,  had  been  summarily  “renversee” 
itself  by  the  Lucernois,  8th  December,  1844,  only  three 
moiilhs  before  my  intended  start  for  the  Alps.  Every  time 
Turner  saw  mo  during  the  winter,  he  said  something  to  dis- 
suade me  from  going  abroad  ; when  at  last  I went  to  say 
good-by,  he  came  down  with  me  into  the  haU  in  Queen 
Anne  Street,  and  opening  the  door  just  enough  for  me  to 
pass,  laid  hold  of  my  arm,  gripping  it  strongly.  “ Why  iclll 
you  go  to  Switzerland — there’ll  be  such  a fidge  about  you, 
when  you’re  gone.” 

I am  never  able  to  collect  myself  in  a moment,  and  am 
simply  helpless  on  any  sudden  need  for  decision  like  this  ; 
the  result  being,  usually,  that  I go  on  doing  what  I meant  to 
do.  If  I say  anything,  it  is  sure  to  be  wrong.  I made  no 
answer,  but  grasped  his  hand  closely,  and  went.  I believe  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  I was  heartless  and  selfish  ; anyhow  he 
took  no  more  pains  with  me. 

As  it  chanced,  even  while  I sat  over  my  trout  at  Champag- 
nole,  there  was  another  expedition  of  the  Francs  Corps — M. 


La  Suisse  Historique,”  par  E.  H.  Gaullieur.  Geneve,  1855,  p. 


428. 


THE  GAMrO  SANTO. 


275 


Gaullieur  does  not  say  against  -wliom,  but  only  that  it  had 
“ une  issue  encore  plus  tragique  que  la  premiere.”  But  there 
had  been  no  instance  of  annoyance  to  English  or  any  other 
travellers,  in  all  the  course  of  these  Swiss  squabbles  since 
1833,  in  wdhch  year — by  the  way,  the  first  of  our  journeys — 
we  drove  under  some  posted  field-batteries  into  Basle,  just 
after  the  fight  at  Liesthal  between  the  liberal  townspeople 
and  Catholic  peasants.  The  landlord  of  the  “Three  Kings” 
had  been  out ; and  run — or  at  least  made  the  best  speed  he 
could — three  leagues  to  the  town  gates. 

It  was  no  part  of  my  plan,  however,  as  my  parents  knew,  to 
enter  Switzerland  in  this  spring-time  : but  to  do  what  I could 
in  Italy  first.  Geneva  itself  was  quiet  enough  : Couttet  met 
me  there,  and  next  da}''  we  drove  over  the  ledges  of  the  Saleve, 
all  aglow  with  primrose  and  soldanelle,  down  upon  Annecy. 

I had  with  me,  besides  Couttet,  a young  servant  who  be- 
came of  great  use  to  me  in  succeeding  years ; with  respect  to 
whom  I must  glance  back  at  some  of  the  past  revolutions  in 
our  domestic  dynasties.  The  cook  and  housemaid  at  Herne 
Hill,  in  its  mainly  characteristic  time — 1827-1834 — were  sis- 
ters, Mary  and  Elizabeth  Stone.  I have  never  seen  a fillet  of 
veal  rightly  roasted,  nor  a Yorkshire  pudding  rightly  basted, 
since  Mary  Stone  left  us  to  be  married  in  1836.  Elizabeth, 
also  not  to  be  excelled  in  her  line,  was  }mt  replaceable,  wdien 
her  career  ended  in  the  same  catastrophe,  by  a third  younger 
sister,  Hannah  ; but  I can’t  in  the  least  remember  who  waited 
on  us,  till  our  perennial  parlor-maid,  Lucy  Tovey,  came  to  us 
in  1829 — remaining  with  us  till  1875.  Her  sister  Harriet  re- 
placed Hannah  Stone,  who  must  needs  be  married,  like  Mary 
and  Elizabeth,  in  1834  ; nor  did  she  leave  us  till  the  Den- 
mark Hill  household  w^as  broken  up.  But  in  1842  another 
young  housemaid  came,  Anne  Hobbs,  whose  brother  John 
Hobbs,  called  always  at  Denmark  Hill,  George,  to  distinguish 
him,  in  vocal  summons,  from  my  father  and  me,  became  my 
body-servant  in  the  same  year,  and  only  left  me  to  push  his 
higher  fortune  in  1854.  I could  not  say  before,  without 
interrupting  graver  matters,  that  the  idea  of  my  not  being  able 
to  dress  myself  began  at  Oxford,  where  it  was  thought  be- 


276 


PRJETERITA. 


coming  in  a gentleman-commoner  to  have  a squire  to  manage 
bis  scout.  My  good,  honest,  uninteresting  Thomas  Hughes, 
being  vigilant  that  I put  my  v/aistcoat  on  right  side  outward, 
went  abroad  with  us,  instead  of  Salvador;  my  father,  after  the 
first  two  journeys,  being  quite  able  to  do  his  courier’s  work 
himself.  When  we  came  home  in  ’42,  Hughes  wanted  to  pro- 
mote himself  to  some  lionor  or  other  in  the  public-house  line, 
and  George  Hobbs,  a sensible  and  merry-minded  youth  of 
eighteen,  came  in  his  stead.  Couttet  and  he  sat  in  the  back 
seat  of  the  light-hooded  barouche  which  I took  for  this 
Italian  journey  ; the  hood  seldom  raised,  as  I never  travelled 
in  bad  weather  unless  surprised  by  it ; and  the  three  of  us 
walked  that  April  morning  up  the  Saleve  slope,  and  trotted 
down  to  Annecy,  in  great  peace  of  mind. 

At  Annecy  I made  the  first  careful  trial  of  my  new  way  of 
work.  I herewith  reproduce  the  study  ; it  is  very  pleasant 
to  me  still ; and  certainly  any  artist  who  once  accustoms  him- 
self to  the  method  cannot  afterward  fall  into  any  mean  trick- 
ery or  dull  conventionalism.  The  outline  must  be  made 
clearly  and  quietly,  conveying  as  much  accurate  information 
as  ])ossible  respecting  the  form  and  structure  of  the  object ; 
then,  in  washing,  the  chiaroscuro  is  lowered  from  the  high 
lights  with  extreme  care  down  to  the  middle  tones,  and  the 
main  masses  left  in  full  shade. 

A rhyme  written  to  Mont  Blanc  at  Geneva,  and  another  in 
vituperation  of  the  idle  people  at  Conflans,  were,  I think,  the 
last  serious  exertions  of  ray  poetical  powers.  I perceived 
finally  that  I could  express  nothing  I had  to  say,  rightly,  in 
that  manner;  and  the  “peace  of  mind”  above  referred  to, 
which  returns  to  me  as  the  principal  character  of  this  open- 
ing journey,  Avas  perhaps,  in  part,  the  result  of  this  extremely 
wholesome  conclusion. 

But  also,  the  two  full  years,  since  the  flash  of  volcanic 
lightning  at  Naples,  liad  brought  me  into  a deeper  and  more 
rational  state  of  religious  temper.  I can  scarcely  yet  call  it 
religious  thought ; but  the  steadily  read  chapters,  morning 
and  evening,  with  the  continual  comparison  between  the 
Protestant  and  Papal  services  every  Sunday  abroad,  made  me 


THE  GAMPO  SANTO. 


277 


feel  that  all  dogmatic  teaching  was  a matter  of  chance  and 
habit ; and  that  the  life  of  religion  depended  on  the  force  of 
faith,  not  the  terms  of  it.  In  the  sincerity  and  brightness  of 
his  imagination,  I saw  that  George  Herbert  represented  the 
theology  of  the  Protestant  Church  in  a perfectly  central  and 
deeply  spiritual  maimer  : his  “ Church  Porch  ” I recognized 
to  be  blamelessly  wise  as  a lesson  to  youth  ; and  the  exqui- 
sitely faithful  fancy  of  the  other  poems  (in  the  “ Temple  ”) 
drew  me  into  learning  most  of  them  by  heart, — the  Church 
Porch,”  the  “ Dialogue,”  “ Employment,”  “ Submission,” 
“Gratefulness,”  and,  chief  favorite,  “ The  Bag,” — deliberately 
and  carefully.  The  code  of  feeling  and  law  written  in  these 
verses  may  be  always  assigned  as  a standard  of  the  purest  un- 
sectarian Christianity ; and  whatever  has  been  v/isest  in  thought 
or  happiest  in  the  course  of  my  following  life  was  founded  at 
this  time  on  the  teaching  of  Herbert.  The  reader  will  per- 
haps be  glad  to  see  the  poem  that  has  been  most  useful  to  me, 
“ Submission,”  in  simpler  spelling  than  in  the  grand  editions  : 

But  that  Thou  art  my  wisdom,  Lord, 

And  both  mine  eyes  are  Thine, 

My  mind  would  be  extremely  stirred 
For  missing  my  design. 

Were  it  not  better  to  bestow 
^ Some  place  and  power  on  me  ? 

Then  should  Thy  praises  with  me  grow, 

And  share  in  my  degree. 

But  when  I thus  dispute  and  grieve 
I do  resume  my  sight, 

And  pilfering  what  I once  did  give, 

Disseize  Thee  of  Thy  right. 

How  know  I,  if  Thou  shouldst  me  raise. 

That  I should  then  raise  Thee  ? 

Perhaps  great  places  and  Thy  praise 
Do  not  so  well  agree  ! 

Wherefore,  unto  my  gift  I stand, 

I will  no  more  advise  ; 

Only  do  Thou  lend  me  Thine  hand, 

Since  Thou  hast  both  mine  eyes. 


278 


PRj^TERITA. 


In  these,  and  other  such  favorite  verses,  George  Herbert, 
as  aforesaid,  was  to  me  at  this  time,  and  has  been  since,  use- 
ful beyond  every  other  teacher ; not  that  I ever  attained  to 
any  likeness  of  feeling,  but  at  least  knew  where  I was  myself 
wrong,  or  cold,  in  comparison.  A little  more  force  was  also 
put  on  Bible  study  at  this  time,  because  I held  myself  re- 
sponsible for  George’s  tenets  as  well  as  my  own,  and  wished 
to  set  him  a discreet  example ; he  being  well-disposed,  and 
given  to  my  guidance,  with  no  harm  as  yet  in  any  of  his 
wa^'s.  So  I read  my  chapter  with  him  morning  and  evening  ; 
and  if  there  were  no  English  church  on  Sundays,  the  Morn- 
ing Service,  Litany  and  all,  very  reverently  ; after  which  we 
enjoyed  ourselves,  each  in  our  own  way,  in  the  afternoons, 
George  being  always  free,  and  Couttet,  if  he  chose  ; but  he 
had  little  taste  for  the  Sunday  promenades  in  a town,  and 
was  glad  if  I would  take  him  with  me  to  gather  flowers,  or 
carry  stones.  I never,  until  this  time,  had  thought  of  travel- 
ling, climbing,  or  sketching  on  the  Sunday  : the  first  infringe- 
ment of  this  rule  by  climbing  the  isolated  peak  above  Gap, 
with  both  Couttet  and  George,  after  our  morning  service, 
remains  a weight  on  my  conscience  to  this  day.  But  it  was 
thirteen  years  later  before  I made  a sketch  on  Sunday. 

By  Gap  and  Sisteron  to  Frejus,  along  the  Biviera  to  Sestri, 
where  I gave  a day  to  draw  the  stone-pines  now  at  Oxford  ; 
and  so  straight  to  my  first  fixed  aim,  Lucca,  where  I settled 
myself  for  ten  days, — as  I supposed.  It  turned  out  forty 
years. 

The  town  is  some  thousand  paces  square  ; the  unbroken 
rampart  walk  round  may  be  a short  three  miles.  There  are 
upward  of  twenty  churches  in  that  space,  dating  between 
the  sixth  and  twelfth  centuries  ; a ruined  feudal  palace  and 
tower,  unmatched  except  at  Verona  : the  streets  clean — cheer- 
fully inhabited,  yet  quiet ; nor  desolate,  even  now.  Two  of 
the  churches  representing  the  perfectest  phase  of  round- 
arched  building  in  Europe,  and  one  of  them  containing  the 
loveliest  Christian  tomb  in  Italy. 

The  rampart  walk,  unbroken  except  by  descents  and  ascents 
at  the  gates,  commands  every  way  the  loveliest  ranges  of  all 


THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 


279 


the  Tuscan  Apennine  : when  I was  there  in  1845,  besides  the 
ruined  feudal  palace,  there  was  a maintained  Ducal  Palace, 
with  a living  Duke  in  it,  whose  military  band  pla^^ed  every 
evening  on  the  most  floral  and  peaceful  space  of  rampart. 
After  a well-spent  day,  and  a three-course  dinner, — military 
band, — chains,  double  braided,  of  ameth}^st  Apennine  linked 
by  golden  clouds, — then  the  mountain  air  of  April,  still  soft 
as  the  marble  towers,  grew  unsubstantial  in  the  starlight, — • 
such  the  monastic  discipline  of  Lucca  to  my  novitiate  mind. 

I must  stop  to  think  a little  how  it  was  that  so  early  as  this 
I could  fasten  on  the  tomb  of  Ilaria  di  Caretto  with  certainty 
of  its  being  a supreme  guide  to  me  ever  after.  If  I get  tire- 
some, the  reader  must  skip  ; I write,  for  the  moment,  to 
amuse  myself,  and  not  him.  The  said  reader,  duly  sagacious, 
must  have  felt,  long  since,  that,  though  very  respectable  peo- 
ple in  our  way,  we  were  all  of  us  definitely  vulgar  people  ; just 
as  my  aunt’s  dog  Towzer  was  a vulgar  dog,  though  a very 
good  and  dear  dog.  Said  reader  should  have  seen  also  that 
we  had  not  set  ourselves  up  to  have  “ a taste  ” in  anything. 
There  was  never  any  question  about  matching  colors  in  furni- 
ture, or  having  the  correct  pattern  in  china.  Everything  for 
service  in  the  house  was  bought  plain,  and  of  the  best ; our 
toys  were  what  we  happened  to  take  a fancy  to  in  pleasant 
places — a cow  in  stala,ctite  from  Matlock,  a fisher-wife  doll 
from  Calais,  a Swiss  farm  from  Berne,  Bacchus  and  Ariadne 
from  Carrara.  But,  among  these  toys,  principal  on  the 
drawdng-room  chimney-piece,  alway  put  away  by  my  mother 
at  night,  and  “put  out”  in  the  afternoon,  were  some  pieces 
of  Spanish  clay,  to  which,  without  knowing  it,  I owed  a 
quantity  of  strenuous  teaching.  Native  baked  clay  figures, 
painted  and  gilded  by  untaught  persons  who  had  the  gift  ; 
manufacture  mainly  practised  along  the  Xeres  coast,  I be- 
lieve, and  of  late  much  decayed,  but  then  flourishing,  and  its 
work  as  good  as  the  worker  could  make  it.  There  was  a 
Don  Whiskerandos  contrabandista,  splendidly  handsome  and 
good-natured,  on  a magnificent  horse  at  the  trot,  brightly 
caparisoned : everything  finely  finished,  his  gun  loose  in  his 
hand.  There  was  a lemonade  seller,  a pomegranate  seller,  a 


280 


PR^TEEITA. 


matador  with  his  bull — animate  all,  and  graceful,  the  coloring 
chiefly  ruddy  brown.  Things  of  constant  interest  to  me,  and 
altogether  wholesome ; vestiges  of  living  sculpture  come  down 
into  the  Herne  Hill  times,  from  the  days  of  Tanagra. 

For  loftier  admiration,  as  before  told,  Chan  trey  in  Lich- 
field, Roubilliac  in  Westminster,  were  set  forth  to  me,  and 
honestly  felt  ; a scratched  white  outline  or  two  from  Greek 
vases  on  the  black  Derbyshire  marble  did  not  interfere  with 
my  first  general  feeling  about  sculpture,  that  it  should  be 
living,  and  emotional ; that  the  flesh  should  be  like  flesh,  and 
the  drapery  like  clothes  ; and  that,  whether  trotting  contra- 
bandista,  dancing  girl,  or  dying  gladiator,  the  subject  should 
have  an  interest  of  its  own,  and  not  consist  merely  of  figures 
with  torches  or  garlands  standing  alternatel}^  on  their  right 
and  left  legs.  Of  “ ideal  ” form  and  the  like,  I fortunately 
heard  and  thought  nothing. 

The  point  of  connoisseurship  I had  reached,  at  sixteen, 
with  these  advantages  and  instincts,  is  curiously  measured  by 
the  criticism  of  the  Cathedral  of  Kheims  in  my  Don  Juan 
journal  of  1835  : 

The  carving  is  not  rich, — the  Gothic  heavy, 

The  statues  miserable  ; not  a fold 
Of  drapery  well-disposed  in  all  the  bevy 
Of  Saints  and  Bishops  and  Archbishops  old 
That  line  the  porches  gray.  But  in  the  nave  I 
Stared  at  the  windows  purple,  blue,  and  gold 
And  the  perspective’s  wonderfully  fine 
When  you  look  down  the  long  columnar  line. 

By  the  “carving  ” I meant  the  niche  work,  which  is  indeed 
curiously  rude  at  Kheims  ; by  the  “ Gothic  ” the  structure 
and  mouldings  of  arch,  which  I rightly  call  “ heavy  ” as  com- 
pared with  later  French  types  ; while  the  condemnation  of 
the  draperies  meant  that  they  were  not  the  least  like  those 
either  of  Rubens  or  Roubilliac.  And  ten  years  had  to  pass 
over  me  before  I knew  better ; but  every  day  between  the 
standing  in  Rheims  porch  and  by  Ilaria’s  tomb  had  done  on 
me  some  chiselling  to  the  good  ; and  the  discipline  from  the 
Fontainebleau  time  till  now  had  been  severe.  The  accurate 


THE  CAMEO  SAMTO. 


281 


Btudy  of  tree  branches,  growing  leaves,  and  foreground  herb- 
age, had  more  and  more  taught  me  the  difference  between 
violent  and  graceful  lines  ; the  beauty  of  Clotilde  and  Cecile, 
essentially  French-Gothic,  and  the  living  Egeria  of  Araceli, 
had  fixed  in  my  mind  and  heart,  not  as  an  art-ideal,  but  as  a 
sacred  realit}^  the  purest  standards  of  breathing  woman- 
hood ; and  here  suddenlj^,  in  the  sleeping  Ilaria,  was  the  per- 
fectness of  these,  expressed  with  harmonies  of  line  which  I 
saw  in  an  instant  were  under  the  same  laws  as  the  river  wave, 
and  the  aspen  branch,  and  the  stars’  rising  and  setting  ; but 
treated  with  a modesty  and  severity  which  read  the  laws  of 
nature  by  the  light  of  virtue. 

Another  influence,  no  less  forcible,  and  more  instantly 
effective,  was  brought  to  bear  on  me  by  my  first  quiet  walk 
through  Lucca. 

Hitherto,  all  architecture,  except  faiiy-finished  Milan,  had 
depended  with  me  for  its  delight  on  being  partly  in  decay. 
I revered  the  sentiment  of  its  age,  and  I was  accustomed  to 
look  for  the  signs  of  age  in  the  mouldering  of  its  traceries, 
and  in  the  interstices  deepening  between  the  stones  of  its 
masonry.  This  looking  for  cranny  and  joint  was  mixed  with 
the  love  of  rough  stones  themselves,  and  of  country  churches 
built  like  Westmoreland  cottages. 

Here  in  Lucca  I found  myself  suddenly  in  the  presence  of 
twelfth  century  buildings,  originally  set  in  such  balance  of 
masonry,  that  they  could  all  stand  without  mortar  ; and  in 
material  so  incorruptible,  that  after  six  hundred  years  of  sun- 
shine and  rain,  a lancet  could  not  now  be  put  between  their 
joints. 

Absolutely  for  the  first  time  I now  saw  what  mediaeval 
builders  were,  and  what  they  meant.  I took  the  simplest  of 
all  fayades  for  analysis,  that  of  Santa  Maria  Foris-Portam,  and 
thereon  literally  began  the  study  of  architecture. 

In  the  third — and,  for  the  reader’s  relief,  last — place  in 
these  technical  records.  Fra  Bartolomeo’s  picture  of  the  Mag- 
dalene, with  St.  Catherine  of  Siena,”  gave  me  a faultless  ex- 
ample of  the  treatment  of  pure  Catholic  tradition  by  the  per- 
fect schools  of  painting. 


282 


PR^WERITA, 


And  I never  needed  lessoning  more  in  the  principles  of  the 
three  great  arts.  After  those  summer  days  of  1845,  I ad- 
vanced only  in  knowledge  of  individual  character,  provincial 
feeling,  and  details  of  construction  or  execution.  Of  what 
was  primarily  right  and  ultimately  best,  there  was  never 
more  doubt  to  me,  and  my  art-teaching,  necessarity,  in  its 
many  local  or  personal  interests  partial,  has  been  from  that 
time  throughout  consistent,  and  progressing  every  year  to 
more  evident  completion. 

The  full  happiness  of  that  time  to  me  cannot  be  explained 
except  to  consistently  hard  workers  ; and  of  those,  to  the  few 
who  can  keep  their  peace  and  health.  For  the  world  ap- 
peared to  me  now  exactly  right.  Hills  as  high  as  they  should 
be,  rivers  as  wide,  pictures  as  pretty,  and  masters  and  men  as 
wise — as  pretty  and  wise  could  be.  And  I expected  to  bring 
everybody  to  be  of  my  opinion,  as  soon  as  I could  get  out  my 
second  volume  ; and  drove  down  to  Pisa  in  much  hope  and 
pride,  though  grave  in  both. 

For  now  I had  read  enough  of  Cary’s  “ Dante,”  and  Sis- 
mondi’s  “ Italian  Republics,”  and  Lord  Lindsay,  to  feel  what 
I had  to  look  for  in  the  Campo  Santo.  Yet  at  this  moment  I 
pause  to  think  what  it  was  that  I found. 

Briefly,  the  entire  doctrine  of  Christianity,  painted  so  that 
a child  could  understand  it.  And  what  a child  cannot  under- 
stand of  Christianity,  no  one  need  tiw  to. 

In  these  days  of  the  religion  of  this  and  that, — briefly  let 
us  say,  the  religion  of  Stocks  and  Posts — in  order  to  say  a 
clear  word  of  the  Campo  Santo,  one  must  first  say  a firm  word 
concerning  Christianity  itself.  I find  numbers,  even  of  the 
most  intelligent  and  amiable  people,  not  knowing  what  the 
word  means  ; because  they  are  always  asking  how  much  is 
true,  and  how  much  they  like,  and  never  ask,  first,  what  was 
the  total  meaning  of  it,  whether  they  like  it  or  not. 

The  total  meaning  was,  and  is,  that  the  God  who  made 
earth  and  its  creatures,  took  at  a certain  time  upon  the  earth, 
the  flesh  and  form  of  man  ; in  that  flesh  sustained  the  pain 
and  died  the  death  of  the  creature  He  had  made  ; rose  again 
after  death  into  glorious  human  life,  and  when  the  date  of  the 


THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 


283 


human  race  is  ended,  will  return  in  visible  human  form,  and 
render  to  every  man  according  to  his  work.  Christianity  is 
the  belief  in,  and  love  of,  God  thus  manifested.  Anything 
less  than  this,  the  mere  acceptance  of  the  sayings  of  Christ, 
or  assertion  of  any  less  than  divine  power  in  His  Being,  may 
be,  for  aught  I know,  enough  for  virtue,  peace,  and  safety ; 
but  they  do  not  make  people  Christians,  or  enable  them  to 
understand  the  heart  of  the  simplest  believer  in  the  old  doc- 
trine. One  verse  more  of  George  Herbert  will  put  the  height 
of  that  doctrine  into  less  debatable,  though  figurative,  pict- 
ure than  any  longer  talk  of  mine  : — 

Hast  tliou  not  heard  that  my  Lord  Jesus  died? 

Then  let  me  tell  thee  a strange  story. 

The  God  of  Power,  as  he  did  ride 
In  his  majestic  robes  of  glory, 

Resolved  to  light ; and  so,  one  day 
He  did  descend,  undressing  all  the  way. 

The  stars  his  tire  of  light,  and  rings,  obtained, 

The  cloud  his  bow,  the  fire  his  spear, 

The  heavens  his  azure  mantle  gained, 

And  when  they  asked  what  he  would  wear, 

He  smiled,  and  said  as  he  did  go, 

“ He  had  new  clothes  a making,  here,  below.” 

T write  from  memory  ; the  lines  have  been  my  lesson,  ever 
since  1845,  of  the  noblesse  of  thought  which  makes  the  sim- 
plest word  best. 

And  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa  is  absolutely  the  same  in 
painting  as  these  lines  in  word.  Straight  to  its  purpose,  in 
the  clearest  and  most  eager  way;  the  purpose,  highest  that  can 
be  ; the  expression,  the  best  possible  to  the  workman  accord- 
ing to  his  knowledge.  The  several  parts  of  the  gospel  of  the 
Campo  Santo  are  written  by  different  persons ; but  all  the 
original  frescoes  are  by  men  of  honest  genius.  No  matter  for 
their  names ; the  contents  of  this  wall-scripture  are  these. 

First,  the  Triumph  of  Death,  as  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Horace 
thought  of  death.  Having  been  within  sight  of  it  myself, 
since  Oxford  days  ; and  looking  back  already  over  a little 


284 


PJR^TERITA, 


Campo  Santo  of  my  own  people,  I was  ready  for  tliat  part  of 
the  lesson. 

Secondly,  the  stor}"  of  the  Patriarchs,  and  of  their  guidance 
by  the  ministries  of  visible  angels  ; that  is  to  say,  the  ideal  of 
the  life  of  man  in  its  blessedness,  before  the  coming  of  Christ. 

Thirdly,  the  story  of  Job,  in  direct  converse  with  God  him- 
self, the  God  of  nature,  and  without  any  reference  to  the 
work  of  Christ  except  in  its  final  surety,  “ Yet  in  my  flesh  I 
shall  see  God.” 

Fourthly,  the  life  of  St.  Ranier  of  Pisa,  and  of  the  desert 
saints,  showing  the  ideal  of  human  life  in  its  blessedness 
after  the  coming  of  Christ. 

Lastly,  the  return  of  Christ  in  glory,  and  the  Last  Judg- 
ment. 

Now  this  code  of  teaching  is  absolutely  general  for  the 
whole  Christian  world.  There  is  no  papal  doctrine,  nor  an- 
tipapal  ; nor  any  question  of  sect  or  schism  whatsoever. 
Kiugs,  bishops,  knights,  hermits,  are  there,  because  the  paint- 
ers saw  them,  and  painted  them,  naturally,  as  we  paint  the 
nineteenth  century  product  of  common  councilmen  and  engi- 
neers. Bat  they  did  not  conceive  that  a man  must  be  entirely 
happy  in  this  world  and  the  next  because  he  wore  a mitre  or 
helmet,  as  we  do  because  he  has  made  a fortune  or  a tunnel. 

Not  only  was  I prepared  at  this  time  for  the  teaching  of 
the  Campo  Santo,  but  it  was  precisely  what  at  that  time  I 
needed. 

It  realized  for  me  the  patriarchal  life,  showed  me  what  the 
earlier  Bible  meant  to  say  ; and  put  into  direct  and  inevitable 
light  the  questions  I had  to  deal  with,  alike  in  my  thoughts 
and  ways,  under  existing  Christian  tradition. 

Questions  clearly  not  to  be  all  settled  in  that  fortnight. 
Some,  respecting  the  Last  Judgment,  such  as  would  have  oc- 
curred to  Professor  Huxley, — as  for  instance,  that  if  Christ 
came  to  judgment  in  St.  James’s  Street,  the  people  couldn’t 
see  him  from  Piccadill}^ — had  been  dealt  with  by  me  before 
now ; but  there  is  one  fact,  and  no  question  at  all,  concerning 
the  Judgment,  which  was  only  at  this  time  beginning  to  dawn 
on  me,  that  men  had  been  curiously  judging  themselves  by 


THE  CAMPO  SANTO. 


285 


always  calling  the  day  they  expected,  “Dies  Irse,”  instead  of 
“ Dies  Amoris.” 

Meantime,  my  own  first  business  was  evidently  to  read 
w'hat  these  Pisans  had  said  of  it,  and  take  some  record  of  the 
sayings  ; for  at  that  time  the  old-fashioned  ravages  were  going- 
on,  honestly  and  innocently.  Nobody  cared  for  the  old  plas- 
ter, and  nobody  pretended  to.  Wlieii  any  dignitary  of  Pisa 
was  to  be  buried,  they  peeled  off  some  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  or 
whatever  else  was  in  the  way,  and  put  up  a nice  new  tablet 
to  the  new  defunct ; but  what  was  left  was  still  all  Benozzo, 
(or  repainting  of  old  time,  not  last  year’s  restoration).  I 
cajoled  the  Abbe  Bosini  into  letting  me  put  up  a scaffold 
level  with  the  frescoes  ; set  steadily  to  work  with  what  faculty 
in  outline  I had  ; and  being  by  this  time  practised  in  delicate 
curves,  by  having  drawn  trees  and  grass  rightly,  got  far  better 
results  than  I had  hoped,  and  had  an  extremely  happy  fort- 
night of  it ! For  as  the  Triumph  of  Death  was  no  new  thought 
to  me,  the  life  of  hermits  was  no  temptation  ; but  the  stories 
of  Abraham,  Job,  and  St.  Banier,  well  told,  were  like  three 
new — Scott’s  novels,  I was  going  to  say,  and  will  say,  for  I 
don’t  see  my  way  to  anything  nearer  the  fact,  and  the  work 
on  them  was  pure  delight.  I got  an  outline  of  Abraham’s 
parting  with  the  last  of  the  three  angels  ; of  the  sacrifice  of 
Job  ; of  the  three  beggars,  and  a fiend  or  two,  out  of  the 
Triumph  of  Death  ; and  of  the  conversion  of  St.  Banier,  for 
wdiich  I greatly  pitied  him. 

For  he  is  playing,  evidently  with  happiest  skill,  on  a kind 
of  zithern-harp,  held  upright  as  he  stands,  to  the  dance  of 
four  sweet  Pisan  maids,  in  a round,  holding  each  other  only 
by  the  bent  little  fingers  of  each  hand.  And  one  with  graver 
face,  and  wearing  a purple  robe,  approaches  him,  saying — I 
knew-  once  wFat  she  said,  but  forget  now ; only  it  meant  that 
his  joyful  life  in  that  kind  was  to  be  ended.  And  he  obeys 
her,  and  follows,  into  a nobler  life. 

I do  not  know  if  ever  there  w^as  a real  St.  Banier  ; but  the 
story  of  him  remained  for  truth  in  the  heart  of  Pisa  as  long  as 
Pisa  herself  lived. 

I got  more  than  outline  of  this  scene  : a colored  sketch  of 


286 


PUMTEBITA, 


the  whole  group,  which  I destroj^ed  afterward,  in  shame  of 
its  faults,  all  but  the  purple-robed  warning  figure  ; and  that 
is  lost,  and  the  fresco  itself  now  lost  also,  all  mouldering  and 
ruined  by  what  must  indeed  be  a cyclical  change  in  the 
Italian  climate : the  frescoes  exposed  to  it  of  which  I made 
note  before  1850,  seem  to  me  to  have  suffered  more  in  the 
twenty  j^ears  since,  than  they  had  since  they  were  painted : 
those  at  Verona  alone  excepted,  where  the  art  of  fresco  seems 
to  have  been  practised  in  the  fifteenth  century  in  absolute 
perfection,  and  the  color  to  have  been  injured  only  by  vio- 
lence, not  by  time. 

There  was  another  lovely  cloister  in  Pisa,  without  fresco, 
but  exquisite  in  its  arched  perspective  and  central  garden, 
and  noble  in  its  unbuttressed  height  of  belfry  tower ; — the 
cloister  of  San  Francesco  : in  these,  and  in  the  meadow  round 
the  baptistery,  the  routine  of  my  Italian  university  life  was 
now  fixed  for  a good  many  years  in  main  material  points. 

In  summer  I have  been  always  at  work,  or  out  w'alking,  by 
six  o’clock,  usually  awake  by  half-past  four  ; but  I keep  to 
Pisa  for  the  present,  where  my  monkish  discipline  arranged 
itself  thus.  Out,  any  how,  by  six,  quick  wmlk  to  the  field, 
and  as  much  done  as  I could,  and  back  to  breakfast  at  half- 
past eight.  Study  bit  of  Sismondi  over  bread  and  butter, 
then  back  to  Campo  Santo,  draw  till  twelve  ; quick  walk  to 
look  about  me  and  stretch  my  legs,  in  shade  if  it  might  be, 
before  lunch,  on  anything  I chanced  to  see  nice  in  a fruit 
shop,  and  a bit  of  bread.  Back  to  lighter  w^ork,  or  merely 
looking  and  thinking,  for  another  hour  and  a half,  and  to 
hotel  for  dinner  at  four.  Three  courses  and  a flask  of  Alea- 
tico,  (a  sweet,  yet  rather  astringent,  red,  rich  for  Italian,  wine 
— provincial,  and  with  lovely  basketwork  round  the  bottle). 
Then  out  for  saunter  with  Couttet ; he  having  leave  to  say  any- 
thing he  had  a mind  to,  but  not  generally  communicative  of 
his  feelings  ; he  carried  my  sketch-book,  but  in  the  evening 
there  was  too  much  always  to  be  hunted  out,  of  city  ; or 
watched,  of  hills,  or  sunset ; and  I rarely  drew, — to  my  sor- 
row, now.  I wish  I knew  less,  and  had  drawn  more. 

Homewards,  from  wherever  we  had  got  to,  the  moment  the 


THE  CAMPO  SANTO, 


287 


sun  was  down,  and  the  last  clouds  had  lost  their  color.  I 
avoided  marshy  places,  if  I could,  at  all  times  of  the  day, 
because  I didn’t  like  them  ; but  I feared  neither  sun  nor 
moon,  dawn  nor  twilight,  malaria  nor  anything  else  malefic, 
in  the  course  of  work,  except  only  draughts  and  ugly  people. 
I never  would  sit  in  a draught  for  half  a minute,  and  fled 
from  some  sorts  of  beggars  ; but  a crowd  of  the  common 
people  round  me  only  made  me  proud,  and  try  to  draw  as 
well  as  I could  ; mere  rags  or  dirt  I did  not  care  an  atom 
for. 

As  early  as  1835,  and  as  late  as  1841,  I had  been  accus- 
tomed, both  in  France  and  Italy,  to  feel  that  the  crov/d  be- 
hind me  was  interested  in  my  choice  of  subjects,  and  pleas- 
antly applausive  of  the  swift  progress  under  my  hand  of 
street  perspectives,  and  richness  of  surface  decoration,  sucli 
as  might  be  symbolized  by  dextrous  zigzags,  empkatic  dots, 
or  graceful  flourishes.  I had  the  better  pleasure,  now,  of 
feeling  that  my  really  watchful  delineation,  while  still  rapid 
enough  to  interest  any  stray  student  of  drawing  who  might 
stop  by  me  on  his  way  to  the  Academy,  had  a quite  unusual 
power  of  directing  the  attention  of  the  general  crowd  to 
points  of  beauty,  or  subjects  of  sculpture,  in  the  buildings  I 
was  at  work  on,  to  which  they  had  never  before  lifted  eyes, 
and  which  I had  the  double  pride  of  first  discovering  for 
them,  and  then  imitating — not  to  their  dissatisfaction. 

And  well  might  I be  proud  ; but  how  much  more  ought  I 
to  have  been  pitiful,  in  feeling  the  swift  and  perfect  sympathy 
which  the  “ common  people  ” — companion-people  I should 
have  said,  for  in  Italy  there  is  no  commonness — gave  me,  in 
Lucca,  or  Florence,  or  Venice,  for  every  touch  of  true  work 
that  I laid  in  their  sight.*  How  much  more,  I say,  should  it 


* A letter,  received  from  Miss  Alexander  as  I correct  this  proof,  gives 
a singular  instance  of  this  power  in  the  Italian  peasant.  She  sajs:  — 
“I  have  just  been  drawing  a magnificent  Loml)ard  shepherd,  who  sits 
to  me  in  a waistcoat  made  from  the  skin  of  a yellow  cow  with  the  hairy 
side  out,  a shirt  of  homespun  linen  as  coarse  as  sailcloth,  a scarlet  sash, 
and  trousers  woven  (I  should  think)  from  the  wool  of  the  black  sheep. 
He  astonishes  me  all  the  time  by  the  great  amount  of  good  advice 


288 


PRMTEPaTA. 


have  beeD  pitiful  to  me,  to  recognize  their  eager  intellect, 
and  delicate  senses,  open  to  every  lesson  and  every  joy  of 
their  ancestral  art,  far  more  deeply  and  vividly  than  in  the 
days  when  every  spring  kindled  them  into  battle,  and  every 
autumn  was  red  with  their  blood  : yet  left  now,  alike  by  the 
laws  and  lords  set  over  them,  less  happy  in  aimless  life  than 
of  old  in  sudden  death  ; never  one  effort  made  to  teach  them, 
to  comfort  them,  to  economize  their  industries,  animate  their 
pleasures,  or  guard  their  simplest  rights  from  the  continually 
more  fatal  oppression  of  unprincipled  avarice,  and  unmerciful 
wealth. 

But  all  this  I have  felt  and  learned,  like  so  much  else,  too 
late.  The  extreme  seclusion  of  my  early  training  left  me  long 
careless  of  sympathy  for  myself;  and  that  which  I gave  to 
others  never  led  me  into  any  hope  of  being  useful  to  them, 
till  my  strength  of  active  life  was  past.  Also,  my  mind  was 
not  yet  catholic  enough  to  feel  that  the  Campo  Santo  be- 
longed to  its  own  people  more  than  to  me  ; and  indeed,  I 
had  to  read  its  lessons  before  I could  interpret  them.  The 
world  has  for  the  most  part  been  of  opinion  that  I entered 
on  the  task  of  philanthropy  too  soon  rather  than  too  late  : at 
all  events,  my  conscience  remained  at  rest  during  all  those 
first  times  at  Pisa,  in  mere  delight  in  the  glory  of  the  past, 
and  in  hope  for  the  future  of  Italy,  without  need  of  my  be- 
coming one  of  her  demagogues.  And  the  days  that  began  in 
the  cloister  of  the  Campo  Santo  usually  ended  by  my  getting 
upon  the  roof  of  Santa  Maria  della  Spina,  and  sitting  in  the 
sunlight  that  transfused  the  warm  marble  of  its  pinnacles, 
till  the  unabated  brightness  went  down  beyond  the  arches  of 
the  Ponte-a-Mare, — the  few  footsteps  and  voices  of  the  twi- 
light fell  silent  in  the  streets,  and  the  city  and  her  mountains 
stood  mute  as  a dream,  beyond  the  soft  eddying  of  Arno. 


which  he  gives  me  about  my  work  ; and  always  right ! Whenever  he 
looks  at  my  unfinished  picture,  he  can  always  tell  me  exactly  what  it 
wants.” 


MACUQNAQA, 


289 


CHAPTER  VII 

MACUGNAGA. 

When  first  I saw  Florence,  in  1840,  the  great  street  leading 
into  the  Baptistery  square  from  the  south  had  not  been  re- 
built, but  consisted  of  ii’regular  ancient  houses,  with  far  pro- 
jecting bracketed  roofs.  I mourned  over  their  loss  bitterly 
in  1845  ; but  for  the  rest,  Florence  was  still,  then,  what  no 
one  who  sees  her  now  could  conceive. 

For  one  great  feature,  an  avenue  of  magnificent  cypress 
and  laurel  ascended,  unbroken,  from  the  Porta  Romana  to 
Bellosguardo,  from  whose  height  one  could  then  wander 
round  through  lanes  of  olive,  or  through  small  rural  vine- 
yards, to  San  Miniato,  which  stood  deserted,  but  not  ruinous, 
with  a narrow  lawn  of  scented  herbage  before  it,  and  sweet 
wild  weeds  about  its  steps,  all  shut  in  by  a hedge  of  roses. 
The  long  ascending  causeway  between  smaller  cypresses  than 
those  of  the  Porta  Romana,  gave  every  conceivably  loveliest 
view  of  the  Duomo,  and  Cascine  forest,  and  passing  away  of 
Arno  toward  the  sunset. 

In  the  city  herself,  the  monasteries  were  still  inhabited, 
religiously  and  usefully  ; and  in  most  of  them,  as  well  as 
among  the  Franciscans  at  Fesole,  I w^as  soon  permitted  to 
go  wherever  I liked,  and  draw  w^hatever  I chose.  But  my 
time  was  passed  chiefly  in  the  sacristy  and  choir  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  the  sacristy  of  Santa  Croce,  and  the  upper- 
passage  of  San  Marco.  In  the  Academia  I studied  the  An- 
gelicos only,  Lippi  and  Botticelli  being  still  far  beyond  me  ; 
but  the  Ghirlandajos  in  the  choir  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  in 
their  broad  masses  of  color,  complied  with  the  laws  I had 
learned  in  Venice,  while  yet  they  swiftly  and  strictly  taught 
me  the  fine  personalities  of  the  Florentine  race  and  art.  At 
Venice,  one  only  knows  a fisherman  by  his  net,  and  a saint 
by  his  nimbus.  But  at  Florence,  angel  or  prophet,  knight 
or  hermit,  girl  or  goddess,  prince  or  peasant,  cannot  but  be 
what  they  are,  masque  them  how  you  will. 

19 


290 


PRMTEniTA. 


Nobody  ever  disturbed  me  in  tlie  Gbirlandajo  apse.  There 
were  no  services  behind  the  high  altar ; tourists,  even  the 
most  learned,  had  never  in  those  days  heard  Ghirlanda- 
jo’s  name  ; the  sacristan  was  paid  his  daily  fee  regularly 
whether  he  looked  after  me  or  not.  The  lovely  chapel,  with 
its  painted  windows  and  companies  of  old  Florentines,  was 
left  for  me  to  do  what  I liked  in,  all  the  forenoon  ; and  I wrote 
a complete  critical  and  historical  account  of  the  frescoes  from 
top  to  bottom  of  it,  seated  mostly  astride  on  the  desks,  till  I 
tumbled  off  backward  one  day  at  the  gap  where  the  steps 
went  down,  but  came  to  no  harm,  though  the  fall  was  really  a 
more  dangerous  one  than  any  I ever  had  in  the  Alps.  The 
inkbottle  was  upset  over  the  historical  account  however,  and 
the  closing  passages  a little  shortened, — which  saved  some 
useful  time. 

When  the  chief  bustle  in  the  small  sacristy,  (a  mere  cup- 
board or  ecclesiastical  pantry,  two  steps  up  out  of  the  transept ) 
was  over,  with  the  chapel  masses  of  the  morning,  I used  to 
be  let  in  there  to  draw  the  Angelico  Annunciation, — about 
eleven  inches  by  fourteen  as  far  as  I recollect,  then  one  of 
the  chief  gems  of  Florence,  seen  in  the  little  shrine  it  was 
painted  for,  now  carried  away  by  republican  pillage,  and  lost 
in  the  general  lumber  of  the  great  pillage-reservoir  galleries. 
The  monks  let  me  sit  close  to  it  and  work,  as  long  as  I liked, 
and  went  on  with  their  cup-rinsings  and  cope-foldings  with- 
out minding  me.  If  any  priest  of  the  higher  dignities  came 
in,  I was  careful  always  to  rise  reverently,  and  get  his  kind 
look,  or  bow,  or  perhaps  a stray  crumb  of  benediction. 
When  I was  tired  of  drawing,  I went  into  the  Spezieria,  and 
learned  what  ineffable  sweetnesses  and  incenses  were  in  the 
lierbs  and  leaves  that  had  gathered  the  sunbeams  of  Florence 
into  their  life  ; and  bought  little  bundles  of  bottles,  an  inch 
long,  and  as  thick  as  a moderately  sized  quill,  with  Araby  the 
blest  and  a spice  island  or  two  inside  each.  Then  in  the  after- 
noon a bit  of  street  or  gallery  work,  and  after  dinner,  always 
up  either  to  Fesole  or  San  Miniato.  In  those  days  I think  it 
never  rained  but  when  one  wanted  it  to,  (and  not  always  then) ; 
wherever  you  chanced  to  be,  if  you  got  tired,  and  had  no 


MACUONAQA, 


291 


friends  to  be  bothered  with,  you  lay  down  on  the  next  bank 
and  went  to  sleep,  to  the  song  of  the  cicadas,  which,  with  a 
great  deal  of  making  believe,  might  at  last,  somehow,  be 
thought  nice. 

I did  make  one  friend  in  Florence,  however,  for  love  of 
Switzerland,  Budolph  Durheim,  a Bernese  student,  of  solid 
bearish  gifts  and  kindly  strength.  I took  to  him  at  first 
because  of  a clearly  true  drawing  he  had  made  of  his  lit- 
tle blue-eyed  twelve-years-old  simplicity  of  a goatherd  sis- 
ter ; but  found  him  afterward  a most  helpful  and  didactic 
friend.  He  objected  especially  to  my  losing  time  in  senti- 
ment or  over-hot  vaporization,  and  would  have  had  me  draw 
something  every  afternoon,  whether  it  suited  my  fancy  or 
not.  “ ^a  vaut  dejii  la  peine,”  said  he,  stopping  on  the  way 
to  the  Certosa,  under  a group  of  hillside  cottages ; it  was  my 
first  serious  lesson  in  Italian  backgrounds  ; and  if  we  had 
worked  on  together,  so  and  so  might  have  happened,  as  so 
often  aforesaid.  But  we  separated,  to  our  sorrow  then,  and 
harm  afterward.  I went  oiT  into  higher  and  vainer  vaporiza- 
tion at  Venice  ; he  went  back  to  Berne,  and  under  the  patron- 
age of  its  aristocracy,  made  his  black  bread  by  dull  portrait- 
painting to  the  end  of  a lost  life.  I saw  the  arid  remnant  of 
him  in  his  Bernese  painting,  or  daubing,  room,  many  a year 
afterward,  and  reproached  the  heartless  Alps,  for  his  sake. 

Of  other  companionship  in  Florence,  except  Couttet’s,  I 
had  none.  I had  good  letters  to  Mr.  Millingen,  and  of 
course  a formal  one  to  the  British  Embassy.  I called  on  Mr. 
Millingen  dutifully,  but  found  he  knew  nothing  after  the 
fourth  century  b.c.,  and  had  as  little  taste  for  the  “Liber 
Studiorum  ” as  the  Abbe  Bosini,  I waited  on  the  Ambassador, 
and  got  him  to  use  British  influence  enough  to  let  me  into 
the  convent  of  the  Magdalen,  wherein  I have  always  since 
greatly  praised  Perugino’s  fresco,  with  a pleasant  feeling 
that  nobody  else  could  see  it.  I never  went  near  the  Em- 
bassy afterward,  nor  the  Embassy  near  me,  till  I sent  my 
P.  P.  C.  card  by  George,  when  I was  going  away,  before  ten  in 

the  morning,  which  caused  Lord ’s  porter  to  swear 

fearfully  at  George  and  his  master  both.  And  it  was  the  last 


292 


TUMTETilTA. 


time  I ever  had  anything  to  do  with  Embassies,  except 
through  the  mediation  of  pitying  friends. 

There  was  yet  another  young  draughtsman  in  Florence,  who 
lessoned  me  to  purpose — a French  youth  ; — his  family  name 
Dieudonne  ; I knew  him  by  no  other.  He  had  trained  him« 
self  to  copy  Angelico,  in  pencil  tint,  wrought  with  the  point, 
as  pure  as  the  down  on  a butterfly’s  wing,  and  with  perfect 
expression  : typical  engraving  in  gray,  of  inconceivable  deli- 
cacy. I have  never  seen  anything  the  least  approaching  it 
since,  but  did  not  then  enough  know  its  value.  Dieudonne’s 
prices  were  necessarily  beyond  those  of  the  water-color  copy- 
ists, and  he  would  not  always  work,  even  when  the  price  was 
ready  for  him.  He  went  back  to  France,  and  was  effaced 
in  the  politeness  of  Paris,  as  Kudolph  in  the  rudeness  of 
Berne.  Hard  homes  alike,  their  native  cities,  to  them  both. 

My  own  work  in  Florence,  this  time,  was  chiefly  thinking 
and  writing — progressive,  but  much  puzzled,  and  its  Epicu- 
rean pieties  a little  too  dependent  on  enamel  and  gilding.  A 
study  in  the  rose-garden  of  San  Miniato,  and  in  the  cypress 
avenue  of  the  Porta  Romana,  remain  to  me,  for  memorials  of 
perhaps  the  best  days  of  early  life. 

Couttet,  however,  was  ill  at  ease  and  out  of  temper  in  Flor- 
ence, little  tolerant  of  Italian  manners  and  customs  ; and  not 
satisfied  that  my  studies  in  sacristies  and  cloisters  were  wise, 
or  vials  of  myrrh  and  m3U’tle  essence  as  good  for  me  as  the 
breeze  over  Alpine  rose.  He  solaced  himself  by  making  a 
careful  collection  of  all  the  Florentine  wdld-flowers  for  me, 
exquisitely  pressed  and  dried, — now,  to  my  sorrow,  lost  or 
burned  with  all  other  herbaria  ; they  fretted  me  by  bulging 
always  in  the  middle,  and  crumbling,  like  parcels  of  tea,  over 
my  sketches. 

At  last  the  Arno  dried  up  ; or,  at  least,  was  reduced  to  the 
size  of  the  Effra  at  Dulwich,  with  muddy  shingle  to  the  shore  ; 
and  the  gray  “pietra  serena”  of  Fesole  was  like  hot  iron  in 
the  sun,  sprinkled  with  sand.  Also,  I had  pretty  w’ell  tired 
myself  out,  and,  for  the  present,  spent  all  my  pictorial  lan- 
guage so  that  we  all  of  us  were  pleased  to  trot  over  the 
Apennines,  and  see  the  gleam  of  Monte  Rosa  again  from  Pia- 


MAGUGNAGA. 


293 


cenza  and  Pavia.  Once  it  was  in  sight,  I went  straight  for  it, 
and  remember  nothing  more  till  we  were  well  afoot  in  the 
Val  Anzasca. 

The  afternoon  rambles  to  Fesole  and  Bellosguardo,  besides 
having  often  to  stand  for  hours  together  writing  notes  in 
church  or  gallery,  had  kept  me  in  fair  training  ; and  I did 
the  twenty  miles  up  hill  from  Vogogna  to  Macugnaga  without 
much  trouble,  but  in  ever  hotter  indignation  all  the  way  at 
the  extreme  dulness  of  the  Val  Anzasca,  “ the  most  beautiful 
valley  in  the  Alps  ” — according  to  modern  guide-books.  But 
tourists  who  pass  their  time  mostly  in  looking  at  black  rocks 
through  blue  spectacles,  cannot  be  expected  to  know  much 
about  a valley  : — on  the  other  hand,  ever  since  the  days  of 
Glenfarg  and  Matlock,  I have  been  a stream-tracker  and  cliff- 
hunter,  and  rank  mountains  more  by  the  beauty  of  their 
glens  than  the  height  of  their  summits  : also,  it  chanced  that 
our  three  first  journeys  abroad  had  shown  me  the  unques- 
tionably grandest  defiles  of  the  Alps  in  succession — first  the 
Via  Mala,  then  the  St.  Gothard,  then  the  tremendous  gran- 
ites of  the  Grimsel,  then  Rosenlaui  and  Lauterbrunnen,  Val 
d’Aosta  and  Cormayeur  ; then  the  valley  of  the  Inn  and  preci- 
pices of  Innsbruck — and  at  last  the  Ortlerspitze  and  descent 
from  the  Stelvio  to  Como  ; with  the  Simplon  and  defile  of 
Cl  use,  now  as  well  known  as  Gipsy  Hill  at  Norwood  : and 
the  Val  Anzasca  has  no  feature  whatever  in  any  kind  to  be 
matched  with  any  one  of  these.  It  is  merely  a deep  furrow 
through  continuous  masses  of  shaly  rock,  blistered  by  the 
sun  and  rough  with  juniper,  with  scattered  chestnut-trees 
and  pastures  below.  There  are  no  precipices,  no  defiles,  no 
distinct  summits  on  either  fiank  ; while  the  Monte  Bosa,  oc- 
casionally seen  at  the  extremity  of  the  valley,  is  a mere  white 
heap,  v/ith  no  more  form  in  it  than  a haycock  after  a thunder- 
shower. 

Nor  was  my  mind  relieved  by  arrival  at  Macugnaga  itself ; 
I did  not  then,  nor  do  I yet,  understand  Avliy  the  village 
should  have  a name  at  all,  more  than  any  other  group  of 
half  a dozen  chalets  in  a sheltered  dip  of  moorlands.  There 
was  a little  inn,  of  which  the  upper  fioor  was  just  enough 


294 


PR^^TEBITA. 


for  the  landlord,  Couttet,  George,  and  me  ; — once,  during  a 
month’s  stay,  I remember  seeing  two  British  persons  with 
knapsacks  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  who  must  also  have 
slept  in  the  house,  I suppose.  My  own  room  was  about 
seven  feet  wide  by  ten  long  ; one  window,  two-feet-six  square, 
at  the  side,  looked  straight  into  the  green  bank  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Monte  Moro,  and  another  at  the  end,  looked  into 
vacant  sky  down  the  valley.  A clear  dashing  stream,  not  ice- 
fed,  but  mere  fountain  and  rainfall  from  the  Moro,  ran  past 
the  house  just  under  the  side  window,  and  was  the  chief 
cause  of  my  stay,  and  consolation  of  it.  The  group  of 
chalets  round  had  no  inhabitants,  that  ever  I saw  : — the  little 
chapel  had  a belfry,  but  I never  remember  hearing  its  bell, 
or  seeing  anybody  go  in  or  come  out  of  it.  I don’t  think 
even  the  goats  had  bells,  so  quiet  the  place  was.  The  Monte 
Kosa  glacier,  a mile  higher  up,  merely  choked  the  valley  ; it 
seemed  to  come  from  nowhere  and  to  be  going  nowliere  ; 
it  had  no  pinnacles,  no  waves,  no  crevasses  with  action 
or  method  of  fracture  in  them  ; no  icefalls  at  the  top,  nor 
arched  source  of  stream  at  the  bottom  ; the  sweep  of  rock 
above  showed  neither  bedding  nor  buttressing  of  the  least 
interest,  and  gave  no  impression  of  having  any  particular  top, 
while  yet  the  whole  circuit  of  it  was,  to  such  poor  climbing 
powers  as  mine,  totally  inaccessible,  and  even  unapproachable, 
but  with  more  trouble  than  it  was  worth. 

Thus  much  I made  out  the  first  day  after  arriving,  but 
thought  there  must  be  something  to  see  somewhere,  if  I 
looked  properly  about ; also,  I had  made  solemn  vows  and 
complex  postal  arrangements  for  a month  under  Monte  Rosa, 
and  I stayed  my  month  accordingly,  with  variously  humiliat- 
ing and  disagreeably  surprising  results. 

The  first,  namely,  that  mountain  air  at  this  height,  4,000 
feet  for  sleeping  level,  varying  to  6,000  or  7,000  feet  in  the 
day’s  walks,  was  really  not  good  for  me,  but  quickened  pulse 
and  sickened  stomach,  and  saddened  one’s  notions  alike  of 
clouds,  stones,  and  pastoral  life. 

The  second,  that  my  Florentine  studies  had  not  taught  me 
how  to  draw  clouds  or  stones  any  better ; that  the  stream  under 


MAGUGNAGA. 


295 


my  window  was  no  more  imitable  than  the  Rhone  itself,  and 
that  any  single  boulder  in  it  would  take  all  the  month,  or  it 
might  be,  six  weeks,  to  paint  the  least  to  my  mind. 

The  third,  that  Alpine  geology  was  in  these  high  centres  of 
it  as  yet  wholly  inscrutable  to  me. 

The  fourth,  that  I was  not,  as  I used  to  suppose,  born  for 
solitude,  like  Dr.  Zimmermann,  and  that  the  whole  south  side 
of  Monte  Rosa  did  not  contain  as  much  real  and  comfortable 
entertainment  for  me  as  the  Market  Street  of  Croydon.  Nor 
do  I believe  I could  have  stayed  out  my  month  at  Macugnaga 
with  any  consistency,  but  that  I had  brought  with  me  a 
pocket  volume  of  Shakespeare,  and  set  myself  for  the  first 
time  to  read,  seriously,  “ Coriolanus”  and  “ Julius  Caesar.” 

I see  that  in  the  earlier  passages  of  this  too  dimly  explicit 
narrative,  no  notice  is  taken  of  the  uses  of  Shakespeare  at 
Herne  Hill,  other  than  that  he  used  to  lie  upon  the  table  ; 
nor  can  I the  least  trace  his  influence  on  my  own  mind  or 
work,  except  as  a part  of  the  great  reality  and  infinity  of  the 
world  itself,  and  its  gradually  unfolding  histoiy  and  law.  To 
my  father,  and  to  Richard  Gray,  the  characters  of  Shake- 
spearian comedy  were  all  familiar  personal  friends ; my 
mother’s  refusal  to  expose  herself  to  theatric  temptation  be- 
gan in  her  having  fallen  in  love,  for  some  weeks,  when  she 
was  a girl,  wnth  Henry  the  Fifth  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt ; 
nor  can  I remember  in  my  own  childhood  any  time  when 
the  plots  of  the  great  plays  w’ere  unknown  to  me,  or — I write 
the  word  now  with  more  than  surprise — misunderstood ! I 
thought  and  felt  about  all  of  them  then,  just  as  I think  and 
feel  now;  no  character,  small  or  great,  has  taken  a nev'iaspect 
to  me  ; and  tlie  attentive  reading  which  began  first  at  Ma- 
cugnaga meant  only  the  discovery  of  a more  perfect  truth,  or 
a deeper  passion,  in  the  w'ords  that  had  before  rung  in  my 
ears  with  too  little  questioned  melody.  As  for  the  full  con- 
tents of  any  passage,  or  any  scene,  I never  expected,  nor  ex- 
pect, to  know  them,  any  more  than  every  rock  of  Skiddaw, 
or  flower  of  Jura. 

But  by  the  light  of  the  little  window  at  Macugnaga,  and  by 
the  murmur  of  the  stream  beneath  it,  began  the  course  of 


296 


PR^TERITA. 


study  which  led  me  into  fruitful  thought,  out  of  the  till  then 
passive  sensation  of  merely  artistic  or  naturalist  life ; and 
which  have  made  of  me — or  at  least  I fain  would  believe  the 
friends  who  tell  me  so — a useful  teacher,  instead  of  a vain 
laborer. 

From  that  time  forward,  nearly  all  serious  reading  was 
done  while  I was  abroad  ; the  heaviest  box  in  the  boot  being 
always  full  of  dictionaries  ; and  my  Denmark  Hill  life  resolved 
itself  into  the  drudgery  of  authorship  and  press  correction, 
with  infinite  waste  of  time  in  saying  the  same  things  over 
and  over  to  the  people  who  came  to  see  our  Turners. 

In  calling  my  authorship  drudgery,  I do  not  mean  that 
writing  ever  gave  me  the  kind  of  pain  of  which  Carlyle  so 
wildly  complains, — to  my  total  amazement  and  boundless 
puzzlement,  be  it  in  passing  said;  for  he  talked  just  as  vigor- 
ously as  he  wrote,  and  the  book  he  makes  bitterest  moan 
over,  “Friedrich,”  bears  the  outer  aspect  of  richly  enjoj^ed 
gossip,  and  lovingly  involuntary  eloquence  of  description  or 
praise.  My  own  literary  work,  on  the  contrary,  was  always 
done  as  quietly  and  methodically  as  a piece  of  tapestry.  I 
knew  exactly  what  I had  got  to  say,  put  the  words  firmly  in 
their  places  like  so  many  stitches,  hemmed  the  edges  of 
chapters  round  with  what  seemed  to  me  graceful  flourishes, 
touched  them  finally  with  my  cunningest  points  of  color,  and 
read  the  work  to  papa  and  mamma  at  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  as  a girl  shows  her  sampler. 

“ Drudgery”  may  be  a hard  word  for  this  often  complacent, 
and  entirely  painless  occupation ; still,  the  best  that  could  be 
said  iv,!’  it,  was  that  it  gave  me  no  serious  trouble  ; and  I 
should  think  the  pleasure  of  driving,  to  a good  coachman,  of 
ploughing,  to  a good  farmer,  much  more  of  dressmaking,  to 
an  inventive  and  benevolent  modiste,  must  be  greatly  more 
piquant  than  the  most  proudly  ardent  hours  of  book-writing 
have  ever  been  to  me,  or  as  far  as  my  memory  ranges,  to  anj^ 
conscientious  author  of  merely  average  power.  How  great 
work  is  done,  under  what  burden  of  sorrow,  or  with  what 
expense  of  life,  has  not  been  told  hitherto,  nor  is  likely  to  be  ; 
the  best  of  late  time  has  been  done  recklessly  or  contemptu- 


MAGUGNAQA. 


297 


ously.  Byron  would  burn  a canto  if  a friend  disliked  it,  and 
Scott  spoil  a story  to  please  a bookseller. 

As  I have  come  on  the  extremely  minor  question  of  my 
own  work,*  I may  once  for  all  complete  all  necessary  account 
of  it  by  confession  of  my  evermore  childish  delight  in  be- 
ginning a drawing  ; and  usually  acute  misery  in  trying  to 
iinish  one.  People  sometimes  praise  me  as  industrious,  when 
they  count  the  number  of  printed  volumes  which  Mr.  Allen 
can  now  advertise.  But  the  biography  of  the  waste  pencilling 
and  passionately  forsaken  coloring,  heaped  in  the  dusty  cor- 
ners of  Brantwood,  if  I could  write  it,  would  be  far  more 
pathetically  exemplary  or  admonitory. 

And  as  I transpose  myself  back  through  the  forty  years  of 
desultory,  yet  careful,  reading,  which  began  in  my  mossy  cell 
of  Macugnaga,  it  becomes  a }'et  more  pertinent  question  to 
me  how  much  life  has  been  also  wasted  in  that  manner, 
and  what  was  not  wasted,  extremely  weakened  and  saddened. 
Very  certainly,  “Coriolanus”  and  “Julius  Csesar”  did  notin 
the  least  cheer  or  strengthen  my  heart  in  its  Monte-Kosean 
solitude  ; and  as  I try  to  follow  the  clue  of  Shakespearian 
power  over  me  since,  I cannot  feel  that  it  has  been  anywise 
wholesome  for  me  to  have  the  world  represented  as  a place 
where,  for  the  best  sort  of  people,  everything  always  goes 
wrong  ; or  to  have  my  conceptions  of  that  best  sort  of  peo- 
ple so  much  confused  by  images  of  the  worst.  To  have  king- 
hood  represented,  in  the  Shakesperian  c}’cle,  by  Richards  II. 
and  III.  instead  of  L,  byHenrys  IV.  and  VIII.  instead  of  II.  ; 
by  King  John,  finished  iuto  all  truths  of  baseness  and  grief, 
while  Henry  V.  is  only  a king  of  fairy  tale  ; or  in  the  realm 
of  imagination,  by  the  folly  of  Lear,  the  cruelty  of  Leontes, 
the  furious  and  foul  guilt  of  Macbeth  and  the  Dane.  V/hy 
must  the  persons  of  lago  and  lachimo,  of  Tybalt  and  Ld- 
mmnl,  of  Isabel’s  brother  and  Helena’s  loi'd,  pollute,  or  witli- 
er  with  their  shadows,  every  happy  scene  in  the  loveliest 
plays  ; and  they,  the  loveliest,  be  all  mixed  and  encumbered 
with  languid  and  common  work, — to  one^s  best  hope  spu- 


* Manner  of  work.  I mean.  How  I learned  tlie  things  I taught  is  the 
major,  and  properly,  only  question  regarded  in  this  history. 


298 


PE^TEBITA. 


rioiis,  certainly,  so  far  as  original,  idle  and  disgraceful? — and 
all  so  inextricably  and  mysteriously  that  the  writer  himself  is 
not  only  unknowable,  but  inconceivable  ; and  his  wisdom  so 
useless,  that  at  this  time  of  being  and  speaking,  among  active 
and  purposeful  Englishmen,  I know  not  one  who  shows  a 
trace  of  ever  having  felt  a passion  of  Shakespeare’s,  or  learnt 
a lesson  from  him. 

Any  way,  for  good  or  sorrow,  my  student’s  life,  instead  of 
mere  instinct  of  rhythmic  mimicry,  began  thus,  not  till  I was 
six-and- twenty.  It  is  so  inconvenient  to  be  always  a year  be- 
hind the  Christian  date,  (and  I am  really  so  young  of  my 
age  !)  that  I am  going  to  suppose  the  reader’s  permission  to 
be  only  a quarter  of  a century  old  at  Macugnaga,  and  to 
count  my  years  henceforward  by  the  stars  instead  of  the 
clock. 

The  month  of  Eome  and  Monte  Eosa  was  at  least,  compared 
with  the  days  at  Florence,  a time  of  rest ; and  when  I got 
down  to  Domo  d’Ossola  again,  I was  fresh  for  the  expedition 
in  search  of  Turner’s  subject  at  Dazio  Grande. 

With  Couttet  and  George,  and  a baggage  mule,  I walked 
up  the  Val  Formazza,  and  across  to  Airolo  ; Couttet  on  this 
walk  first  formulating  the  general  principle,  “ Pour  que 
George  aillo  bien,  il  faut  lui  donner  a manger  souvent  ; et 
beaucoup  a la  fois.”  I had  no  objection  whatever  to  this 
arrangement,  and  was  only  sony  my  Chamouni  tutor  could 
not  give  the  same  good  report  of  me.  But  on  anything  like 
a hard  day’s  walk,  the  miles  after  lunch  alwaj^s  seemed  to  me 
to  become  German  instead  of  geographical.  And,  although, 
I much  enjoyed  the  Yal  Formazza  all  the  way  up,  Airolo 
next  day  was  found  to  be  farther  off  than  it  appeared  on  the 
map,  and  on  the  third  morning  I ordered  a post  chaise,  and 
gave  up  my  long-cherished  idea  of  making  the  pedestrian 
tour  of  Europe. 

The  work  done  at  Faido  and  Dazio  Grande  is  told  and  il- 
lustrated in  the  fourth  volume  of  “Modern  Painters  ; ” it  was 
a little  shortened  by  a letter  from  J.  D.  Harding,  asking  if  I 
would  like  him  to  join  me  at  any  place  I might  have  chosen 
for  autumn  sketching.  Very  gratefully,  I sent  word  that  I 


MAGUGNAGA. 


299 


would  wait  for  him  at  Baveno  ; where,  accordingly,  toward  the 
close  of  August,  we  made  fraternal  arrangements  for  an  Ely- 
sian  fortnight’s  floating  round  Isola  Bella.  There  was  a 
spacious  half  of  seat  vacant  in  my  little  hooded  carriage,  and 
good  room  for  Harding’s  folios  with  mine  : so  we  trotted 
from  Baveno  to  Arona,  and  from  Arona  to  Como,  and  from 
Como  to  Bergamo,  and  Bergamo  to  Brescia,  and  Brescia  to 
Verona,  and  took  up  our  abode  in  the  “Two  Towers”  for  as 
long  as  we  chose. 

I do  not  remember  finding  in  any  artistic  biography  the 
history  of  a happier  epoch  than  it  was  to  us  both.  I am  bold 
to  speak  for  Harding  as  for  myself.  Generally,  the  restless- 
ness of  ambition,  or  the  strain  of  effort,  or  anxiety  about 
money  matters,  taint  or  disturb  the  peace  of  a painter’s 
travels  : but  Harding  did  not  wish,  or  perhaps  think  it  pos- 
sible, to  do  better  than,  to  his  own  mind,  he  always  did  ; 
while  I had  no  hope  of  becoming  a second  Turner,  and  no 
thoughts  of  becoming  a thirtieth  Academician.  Harding  was 
sure  of  regular  sale  for  his  summer’s  work,  and  under  no 
difliculty  in  dividing  the  hotel  bills  with  me  : we  both  en- 
joyed the  same  scenes,  though  in  difierent  ways,  which  gave 
us  subjects  of  surprising  but  not  antagonistic  talk  : the 
weather  was  perfect,  the  roads  smooth,  and  the  inns  luxuri- 
ous. 

I must  not  yet  say  more  of  Verona,  than  that,  though  truly 
Bouen,  Geneva,  and  Pisa  have  been  the  centres  of  thought 
and  teaching  to  me,  Verona  has  given  the  coloring  to  all  they 
taught.  She  has  virtually  represented  the  fate  and  the 
beauty  of  Italy  to  me  ; and  whatever  concerning  Ital}'- 1 have 
felt,  or  been  able  with  any  charm  or  force  to  say,  has  been 
dealt  with  more  deeply,  and  said  more  earnestly,  for  her 
sake. 

It  was  only  for  Harding’s  sake  that  I went  on  to  Venice, 
that  year  ; and,  for  the  first  week  there,  neither  of  us  thought 
of  anything  but  the  market  and  fishing  boats,  and  efiects  of 
light  on  the  city  and  the  sea  ; till,  in  the  spare  hour  of  one 
sunny  but  luckless  day,  the  fancy  took  us  to  look  into  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  Hitherto,  in  hesitating  conjectures  of 


300 


PB^TEBITA, 


what  might  have  been,  I have  scarcely  ventured  to  wish, 
gravely,  that  it  had  been.  But,  very  earnestly,  I should  have 
bid  myself  that  day  keep  out  of  the  School  of  St.  Eoch,  had  I 
known  what  was  to  come  of  my  knocking  at  its  door.  But 
for  that  porter’s  opening,  I should  (so  far  as  one  can  ever 
know  what  they  should)  have  written,  “ The  Stones  of  Cha- 
mouni,”  instead  of  “ The  Stones  of  Venice  ; ” and  the  “ Laws 
of  Fesole,”  in  the  full  code  of  them,  before  beginning  to  teach 
in  Oxford  : and  I should  have  brought  out  in  full  distinctness 
and  use  what  faculty  I had  of  drawing  the  human  face  and 
form  with  true  expression  of  their  higher  beauty. 

But  Tintoret  swept  me  away  at  once  into  the  “ mare  mag- 
giore  ” of  the  schools  of  painting  which  crowned  the  power 
and  perished  in  the  fall  of  Venice  ; so  forcing  me  into  the 
study  of  the  history  of  Venice  herself ; and  through  that  into 
what  else  I have  traced  or  told  of  the  laws  of  national  strength 
and  virtue.  I am  ha23py  in  having  done  this  so  that  the  truth 
of  it  must  stand  ; but  it  was  not  my  own  proper  work  ; and 
even  the  sea-born  strength  of  Venetian  painting  was  beyond 
my  granted  fields  of  fruitful  exertion.  Its  continuity  and 
felicity  became  thenceforward  impossible,  and  the  measui’e  of 
my  immediate  success  irrevocably  shortened. 

Strangely,  at  the  same  moment,  another  adversity  first 
made  itself  felt  to  me, — of  which  the  fatality  has  been  great 
to  many  and  many  besides  myself. 

It  must  have  been  during  my  last  days  at  Oxford  that  Mr. 
Liddell,  the  present  Dean  of  Christ  Church,  told  me  of  the 
original  experiments  of  Daguerre.  My  Parisian  friends  ob- 
tained for  me  the  best  examples  of  his  results  ; and  the  plates 
sent  to  me  in  Oxford  were  certainly  the  first  examjfies  of  the 
sun’s  drawing  that  were  ever  seen  in  Oxford,  and,  I believe, 
the  first  sent  to  England. 

Wholly  careless  at  that  time  of  finished  detail,  I saw  noth- 
ing ill  the  Daguerreotype  to  help  or  alarm  me  ; and  inquired 
no  more  concerning  it,  until  now  at  Venice  I found  a French 
artist  producing  exquisitely  bright  small  plates,  (about  four 
inches  square,)  which  contained,  under  a lens,  the  Grand 
Canal  or  St.  Mark’s  Place  as  if  a magician  had  reduced  the 


MACUGNAGA. 


301 


reality  to  be  carried  away  into  an  enchanted  land.  The  little 
gems  of  picture  cost  a napoleon  each  ; but  with  two  hundred 
francs  I bought  the  Grand  Canal  from  the  Salute  to  the  liialto  ; 
and  packed  it  away  in  thoughtless  triumph. 

I had  no  time  then  to  think  of  the  new  power,  or  its  mean- 
ings ; my  days  were  over-weighted  alread}^  Every  morning, 
at  six  by  the  Piazza  clock,  we  were  moored,  Harding  and  I, 
among  the  boats  in  the  fruit-market ; then,  after  eight  o’clock 
breakfast,  he  went  on  his  own  quest  of  full  subjects,  and  I to 
the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  or  wherever  else  in  Venice  there 
were  Tintorets.  In  the  afternoon,  we  lashed  our  gondola  to 
the  stem  of  a lishing-boat,  sailing,  as  the  wdnd  served,  with- 
in or  outside  the  Lido,  and  sketching  the  boat  and  her 
sails  in  their  varied  action, — or  Venice,  as  she  shone  far  away 
beyond  her  islands.  Back  to  Danieli’s  for  six-o’clock  table 
d’hote  ; where,  after  we  had  got  a bit  of  fish  and  fillet  of  any 
thing,  the  September  days  v/ere  yet  long  enough  for  a sunset 
walk. 

A much  regarded  friend,  Mr.  Boxall,  B.A.,  came  on  to  Ven- 
ice at  this  time,  after  finishing  at  Milan  the  beautiful  draw- 
ing from  Leonardo’s  Christ,  which  was  afterward  tenderly, 
though  inadequate!}^,  engraved.  Mrs.  Jameson  was  staying 
also  at  Danieli’s,  to  complete  her  notes  on  Venetian  legends  : 
and  in  the  evening  walk  we  were  usually  together,  the  four 
of  us  ; Boxall,  Harding,  and  I extremely  embarrassing  Mrs. 
Jameson  by  looking  at  everything  from  our  pertinaciously 
separate  corners  of  an  equilateral  triangle.  Mrs.  Jameson 
was  absolutely  without  knowledge  or  instinct  of  painting  ; and 
had  no  sharpness  of  insight  for  anything  else,  but  she  was  can- 
did and  industrious,  with  a pleasant  disposition  to  make  the 
best  of  all  she  saw,  and  to  say,  compliantly,  that  a picture  was 
good,  if  anybody  had  ever  said  so  before.  Her  peace  of  mind 
was  restored  in  a little  while,  by  observing  that  the  three  of 
us,  however  separate  in  our  reasons  for  liking  a picture, 
always  fastened  on  the  same  pictures  to  like  ; and  that  she 
was  safe,  therefore,  in  saying  that,  for  whatever  other  reason 
might  be  assigned,  other  people  should  like  them  also. 

I got  some  most  refined  and  right  teaching  from  Mr.  Boxall ; 


302 


PB^TERITA. 


of  which  I remember  as  chiefly  vital,  his  swift  correction  of 
my  misgiven  Wordsworth’s  line — 

“So  be  it  when  I shall  grow  old,” 

as — 

“ So  shall  it  be  when  I grow  old.” 

I read  Wordsworth  with  better  care  and  profit  ever  after- 
ward ; but  there  was  this  much  of  reason  for  that  particular 
mistake,  that  I was  perfectly  confident  in  my  own  heart’s  love 
of  rainbows  to  the  end,  and  felt  no  occasion  to  wish  for  what 
I was  so  sure  would  be. 

But  Mr.  Boxall’s  time,  and  Harding’s,  were  at  end  before  I 
had  counted  and  described  all  the  Tintorets  in  Venice,  and 
they  left  me  at  that  task,  besides  trying  to  copy  the  Adoration 
of  the  Magi  on  four  sheets  of  brown  paper.  Things  had  gone 
fairly  well  as  long  as  Harding  took  me  out  to  sea  every  after- 
noon ; but  now,  left  to  myself,  trying  to  paint  the  Madonna 
and  Magi  in  the  morning,  and  peering  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
into  the  shadowy  corners  of  chaj^el  and  sacristy  and  palace 
corridor,  beside  every  narrow  street  that  was  paved  with 
waves,  my  strength  began  to  fail  fast.  Couttet  got  anxious, 
and  looked  more  gravely  every  morning  into  my  eyes.  “ ^a 
ne  va  pas  bien,”  said  he.  “ Vous  ne  le  sentirez  pas  a present, 
mais  vous  le  sentirez  apres.”  I finished  my  list,  however, 
pasted  my  brown  paper  into  some  rude  likeness  of  the  pict- 
ure,— and  packed  up  colors  and  note-books  finally  for  a rapid 
run  home  ; when,  as  so  often  happens  in  the  first  cessation  of 
an  overstrain,  the  day  after  leaving  Venice  I was  stopped  at 
Padua  by  a sharp  fit  of  nervous  fever. 

I call  it  “ nervous,”  not  knowing  what  else  to  call  it, — for 
there  was  no  malarifin  taint  or  other  malignity  in  it,  but  only 
quick  pulse,  and  depressed  spirit,  and  the  nameless  ailing  of 
overwearied  flesh.  Couttet  put  me  to  bed  instantly,  and 
went  out  to  buy  some  herb  medicines, — whicli  Paduan  physi- 
cians are  wise  enough  yet  to  keep, — and  made  me  some  ti- 
sane, and  bade  me  be  patient,  and  all  would  be  well.  And, 
indeed,  next  day  I was  up,  in  armchair ; but  not  allowed  to 


MAC  UO  NAG  A, 


303 


stir  out  of  the  extremely  small  back  room  of  the  old  inn, 
which  commanded  view  only  of  a few  deep  farrowed  tiles 
and  a little  sky.  I sent  out  George  to  see  if  he  could  find 
some  scrap  of  picture  to  hang  on  the  blank  wall  ; and  he 
brought  me  a seven-inch-square  bit  of  fifteenth  century  tem- 
pera, a nameless  saint  with  a scarlet  cloak  and  an  embossed 
nimbus,  who  much  comforted  me. 

I was  able  to  travel  in  a day  or  two ; but  the  mental  de- 
pression, with  some  weakness  of  limb,  remained,  all  across 
Lombardy,  as  far  as  Vogogna,  where  a frosty  morning  glit- 
tered on  the  distant  Simplon  ; and  though  I could  not  walk 
up  the  pass  of  Gondo,  there  Vv’’as  no  more  sadness  in  me, 
afterward,  than  I suffered  always  in  leaving  either  Italy  or 
the  Alps. 

Which,  however,  in  its  own  kind,  became  acute  again  a day 
or  two  afterward,  when  I stopped  on  a cloudless  afternoon 
at  Nyon,  where  the  road  branches  away  for  Paris.  I had  to 
say  good-by  to  Mont  Blanc — there  visible  in  his  full  cone, 
through  the  last  gap  given  by  the  Chablais  mountains  as  they 
rise  eastward  along  the  lake  shore. 

Six  months  before,  I had  rhymed  to  his  snows  in  such  hope 
and  delight,  and  assurance  of  doing  everything  I wanted,  this 
year  at  last  ; and  now,  I had  only  discovered  wants  that  any 
number  of  years  could  not  satisfy;  and  weaknesses,  which  no 
ardor  of  effort  or  patience  of  practice  could  overcome. 

Thus,  for  the  first  time,  measuring  some  of  the  outer  bas- 
tions of  the  unconquerable  world,  I opened  my  English  let- 
ters ; which  told  me  that  my  eldest  Croydon  cousin,  John,  in 
whose  prosperity^  and  upward  rounding  of  fortune’s  wheel  all 
of  us  had  been  confident,  waas  dead  in  Australia. 

So  much  stronger  than  I,  and  so  much  more  dutiful,  work- 
ing for  his  people  in  the  little  valley  of  Wandel,  out  in  the 
great  opposite  desolate  country  ; and  now  the  dust  of  it  laid 
on  him,  as  on  his  brother  the  beach-sand  on  this  side  the  sea. 
There  was  no  grief,  for  me,  in  his  loss,  so  little  had  I known, 
and  less  remembered,  him  ; but  much  awe,  and  wonder,  when 
all  the  best  and  kindest  of  us  were  thus  struck  down,  what 
my  own  selfish  life  was  to  come  to,  or  end  in. 


304 


PEjETEHITA. 


With  these  thoughts  and  fears  fastening  on  me,  as  I lost 
sight  first  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  then  of  the  lines  of  Jura,  and 
saw  the  level  road  with  its  aisle  of  poplars  in  perspective  vista 
of  the  five  days  between  Dijon  and  Calais,  the  fever  returned 
slightly,  with  a curious  tingling,  and  yet  partly,  it  seemed  to 
me,  deadness  of  sensation,  in  the  throat,  which  would  not 
move,  for  better  nor  worse,  through  the  long  daj's,  and 
•■mostly  wakeful  nights.  I do  not  know  if  diphtheria  had 
been,  in  those  epochs,  known  or  talked  of ; but  I extremely 
disliked  this  feeling  in  the  throat,  and  passed  from  dislike 
into  sorrowful  alarm,  (having  no  Couttet  now  to  give  me  ti- 
sane,) and  wonder  if  I should  ever  get  home  to  Denmark  Hill 
again. 

Although  the  poetical  states  of  religious  feeling  taught  me 
by  George  Herbert’s  rhymes,  and  the  reading  of  formal  peti- 
tion, whether  in  psalter  or  litany,  at  morning  and  evening 
and  on  Sunda}"  forenoon,  were  sincere  enough  in  their  fanci- 
ful or  formal  ways,  no  occasion  of  life  had  yet  put  me  to  any 
serious  trial  of  direct  prayer.  I never  knew  of  Jessie’s  or  my 
aunt’s  sicknesses,  or  now  of  my  cousin  John’s,  until  too  late 
for  prayer  ; in  our  own  household  there  had  been  no  instantly 
dangerous  illness  since  my  own  in  1835  ; and  during  the  long 
threatening  of  1841  I was  throughout  more  sullen  and  rebel- 
lious than  frightened.  But  now,  between  the  Campo  Santo 
and  Santa  Maria  Novella,  I had  been  brought  into  some 
knowledge  of  the  relations  that  might  truly  exist  between 
God  and  His  creatures  ; and  thinking  what  my  father  and 
mother  would  feel  if  I did  not  get  home  to  them  through 
those  poplar  avenues,  I fell  gradually  into  the  temper,  and 
more  or  less  tacit  oftering,  of  very  real  prayer. 

Which  lasted  patiently  through  two  long  days,  and  wdiat  I 
knew  of  the  nights,  on  the  road  home.  On  the  third  day,  as 
I was  about  coming  in  sight  of  Paris,  what  people  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  praying  know  as  the  consciousness  of  answer, 
came  to  me ; and  a certainty  that  the  illness,  which  had  all 
this  while  increased,  if  anything,  would  be  taken  away. 

Certainty  in  mind,  which  remained  unshaken,  through  un- 
abated discomfort  of  body,  for  another  night  and  day,  and 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


305 


then  the  evil  symptoms  vanished  in  an  hour  or  two,  on  the 
road  beyond  Paris  ; and  I found  myself  in  the  inn  at  Beau- 
vais entirely  well,  with  a thrill  of  conscious  happiness  alto- 
gether new  to  me. 

Which,  if  I had  been  able  to  keep! Another  '‘had 

been  ” this,  the  gravest  of  all  I lost ; the  last  with  which  I 
shall  trouble  the  reader. 

That  happy  sense  of  direct  relation  with  Heaven  is  known 
evidently  to  multitudes  of  human  souls  of  all  faiths,  and  in  all 
lands  ; evidentl}'  often  a dream, — demonstrably,  as  I conceive, 
often  a reality  ; in  all  cases,  dependent  on  resolution,  patience, 
self-denial,  prudence,  obedience  ; of  which  some  pure  hearts 
are  capable  without  effort,  and  some  l)y  constancy.  Whether 
I was  capable  of  holding  it  or  not,  I cannot  tell ; but  little  by 
little,  and  for  little,  yet  it  seemed  invincible,  causes,  it  passed 
away  from  me.  I had  scarcely  reached  home  in  safety  be- 
fore I had  sunk  back  into  the  faintness  and  darkness  of  the 
Under-World. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 

The  house  on  Denmark  Hill,  where  m}^  father  and  mother, 
in  the  shortening  days  of  1845,  thankfully  received  back  their 
truant,  has  been  associated,  by  dated  note-paper,  with  a quar- 
ter of  a century  of  my  English  life  ; and  was  indeed  to  my 
parents  a peaceful,  yet  cheerful,  and  pleasantly,  in  its  subur- 
ban manner,  dignified,  abode  of  their  declining  years.  For 
my  father  had  no  possibilities  of  real  retirement  in  him  ; his 
business  was  the  necessary  pride  and  fixed  habit  of  his  soul  : 
his  ambition,  and  what  instinct  of  accumulative  gain  the  mer- 
cantile life  inevitably  begets,  were  for  me  only ; but  involved 
the  fixed  desire  to  see  me  moving  in  the  western  light  of  Lon- 
don,  among  its  acknovvdedged  literary  orders  of  merit ; and 
were  totally  inconsistent  with  the  thought,  faintly  and  inter- 
inittingly  haunting  my  mother  and  me,  that  a rose-covered  cot- 
tage in  the  dells  of  Matlock,  or  the  vale  of  Keswick,  might  be 
20 


30G 


PRJSTERITA. 


nearer  the  heavenly  world,  for  us,  than  all  the  majesty  of 
Denmark  Hill,  connected  though  it  was,  by  the  Vauxhall 
Koacl  and  convenient  omnibuses,  with  St.  James’s  Street  and 
Cavendish  Square. 

Bat  the  house  itself  had  every  good  in  it,  except  nearness 
to  a stream,  that  could  with  any  reason  be  coveted  by  modest 
mortals.  It  stood  in  command  of  seven  acres  of  healthy 
ground  (a  patch  of  local  gravel  there  overlying  the  London 
clay)  ; half  of  it  in  meadow  sloping  to  the  sunrise,  the  rest 
prudently  and  pleasantly  divided  into  an  upper  and  lower 
kitchen  garden  ; a fruitful  bit  of  orchard,  and  chance  inlets 
and  outlets  of  woodwalk,  opening  to  the  sunny  path  by  the 
field,  which  was  gladdened  on  its  other  side  in  springtime  by 
flushes  of  almond  and  double  peach  blossom.  Scarce  all  the 
hyacinths  and  heath  of  Brantwood  redeem  the  loss  of  these  to 
me,  and  when  the  summer  winds  have  wrecked  the  wreaths 
of  our  wild  roses,  I am  apt  to  think  sorrowfully  of  the  trail- 
ings  and  climbings  of  deep  purple  convolvulus  which  bloomed 
full  every  autumn  morning  round  the  trunks  of  the  apple- 
trees  in  the  kitchen  garden. 

The  house  itself  had  no  specialty,  either  of  comfort  or  in- 
convenience, to  endear  it ; the  breakfast-room,  opening  on 
the  lawn  and  farther  field,  was  extremely  pretty  when  its 
walls  were  mostly  covered  with  lakes  by  Turner  and  doves 
by  Hunt;  the  dining  and  drawing  rooms  were  spacious 
enough  for  our  grandest  receptions, — never  more  than  twelve 
at  dinner,  with  perhaps  Henry  Watson  and  his  sisters  in  the 
evening, — and  had  decoration  enough  in  our  Northcote  por- 
traits, Turner’s  “Slave-ship,”  and,  in  later  years,  his  “ Bial- 
to,”  with  our  John  Lewis,  two  Copley  Fieldings,  and  every 
now  and  then  a new  Turner  drawing.  My  own  work-room, 
above  the  breakfast-room,  was  only  distinct,  as  being  such,  in 

* Namely.  Derventwater  ; Lake  Lucerne,  with  the  Eighi  at  sunset ; 
the  Bay  of  Uri,  with  the  Rothstork,  from  above  Brunnen  ; Lucerne  it- 
self. seen  from  the  lake  ; the  upper  reach  of  the  lake,  seen  from  Lu- 
cerne ; and  the  opening  of  the  Lake  of  Constance,  from  Constance. 
Goldau,  St.  Gothard,  SchafThausen,  Coblentz,  and  Llauthony,  raised  the 
total  of  matchless  Turner  drawings  in  this  room  to  eleven. 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


307 


its  large  oblong  table,  occupying  so  much  of  the — say  fifteen 
by  five  and  twenty — feet  of  available  space  within  bookcases, 
that  the  rest  of  the  floor  virtually  was  only  a passage  round 
it.  I always  wrote  on  the  flat  of  the  table, — a bad  habit,  en- 
forced partly  by  the  frequent  need  of  laying  drawings  or 
books  for  reference  beside  me.  Two  windows,  forming  the 
sides  of  a bow  blank  in  the  middle,  gave  me,  though  rather 
awkwardly  crossed,  all  the  light  I needed  : jDartly  through 
laziness  and  make-shiftiness,  partly  in  respect  for  external 
s^mimetry, — for  the  house  had  really  something  of  an  archi- 
tectural air  at  the  back, — I never  opened  the  midmost  blank 
wall,  though  it  considerably  fretted  me  : the  single  window 
of  my  bedroom  above,  looking  straight  southeast,  gave, 
through  the  first  ten  or  twelve  winters  at  Denmark  Hill,  com- 
mand of  the  morning  clouds,  inestimable  for  its  aid  in  all 
healthy  thought.  Papa  and  mamma  took  possession  of  the 
quiet  western  rooms,  which  looked  merely  into  the  branches 
of  the  cedar  on  the  front  lawn. 

Ill  such  stateliness  of  civic  domicile,  the  industry  of  mid- 
life now  began  for  me,  little  disturbed  by  the  murmur  of 
London  beyond  the  bridges,  and  in  nowise  by  any  enlarge- 
ment of  neighborly  circle  on  the  Hill  itself  ; one  family  alone 
excepted,  whose  aftectioii  has  not  failed  me  from  then  till 
ow, — having  begun  in  earlier  times,  out  of  which  I must  yet 
gather  a gleam  or  two  of  the  tremulous  memory. 

In  speaking  of  Mr.  Dale’s  school,  I named  only  my  younger 
companions  there  ; of  whom  Willoughby  had  gone  to  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  by  this  time  beyond  my  ken  ; but  Edward 
Matson  sometimes  came  yet  to  dine  with  us  at  Denmark  Hill, 
and  sometimes  carried  me  down  to  Woolwich,  to  spend  a day 
amidst  its  military  displays  and  arts,  with  his  father,  and 
mother,  and  two  sweet  younger  sisters.  Where  I saw,  in 
Major  Matson,  such  calm  type  of  truth,  gentleness,  and  sim- 
plicity, as  I have  myself  found  in  soldiers  or  sailors  only  ; 
and  so  admirable  to  me  that  I have  never  been  able,  since 
those  Woolwich  times,  to  gather  myself  up  against  the  na- 
tional guilt  of  war,  seeing  that  such  men  were  made  by  the 
discipline  of  it. 


308 


PB^TERITA. 


But  at  Mr.  Dale’s  were  also  two  senior  pupils,  little  known 
to  me  except,  Henry  Dart  by  his  large  hazel  eyes,  and  Ed- 
mund Oldfield  by  his  already  almost  middle-aged  aspect  of 
serene  sagacity.  When  I went  to  Oxford,  I found  Dart  at 
Exeter  College,  where  we  established  poetical  friendship,  and 
contended  in  all  honor  for  the  Newdigate,  reading  our  best 
passages  to  each  other,  for  improving  censure.  Dart,  very 
deservedly,  won  it  that  year,  and  gave  promise  of  generous 
distinction  afterward  ; but  the  hazel  eyes  were  too  bright, 
and  closed,  in  a year  or  two,  to  this  world’s  ambition. 

I do  not  know  how  it  chanced  that  the  art  impulse  Avhich 
animated  Edmund  Oldfield’s  grave  sagacity  did  not  manifest 
itself  to  me  till  much  later.  He  was  the  elder  brother  of  a 
large  group  of  clever  lads  and  lasses,  amiable  in  the  extreme, 
yet  in  a slightly  severe  and  evangelical  manner ; whose  father 
was  in  some  tangible  relation  to  mine  as  one  of  the  leading 
men  of  business  on  the  Hill ; their  mother  known  to  us  by 
sight  only,  as  a refined  and  still  beautiful  woman, — evangelical 
rvithout  severity  ; both  of  them  occupying,  with  such  of  their 
children  as  were  that  way  minded,  the  pew  before  us  in  Mr. 
Burnet’s  chapel,  whereat  sometimes  in  my  younger  days  we 
went  to  hear  a gloomier  divinity  than  that  of  my  beloved  and 
Anacreontic  Doctor  Andrews. 

We  might  never  have  known  more  of  them,  unless,  among 
the  sacred  enthusiasms  of  Camberwell  parish,  the  fancy  had 
arisen  to  put  a painted  window  into  the  east  end  of  the  pretty 
church,  just  built  for  it  by  Mr.  Gilbert  Scott.  Edmund 
Oldfield,  already  advanced  far  beyond  me  in  Gothic  art 
scholarship,  was  prime  mover  in  the  matter,  but  such  rumor 
as  existed  in  the  village  of  my  interest  in  architecture  justified 
him  in  expecting  some  help  from  me.  I had  already  quite 
fixed  notions  of  what  the  color  of  glass  should  be,  and  in 
these  Edmund  concurred.  The  tracery  of  the  east  window 
seemed  to  us  convertible  into  no  dishonoring  likeness  of 
something  at  Kheims  or  Chartres.  Hitherto  unconscious  of 
my  inability  to  compose  in  color,  I offered  to  design  the 
entire  window  head  ; and  did,  after  some  headstrong  toil, 
actually  fill  the  required  spaces  with  a mosaic  presenting 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK, 


309 


an  orthodox  cycle  of  subjects  in  purple  and  scarlet,  round 
a more  luminous  centre  of  figures  adapted  from  Michael 
Angelo.  Partly  in  politeness,  partly  in  curiosity,  the  com- 
mittee on  the  window  did  verily  authorize  Edmund  Oldfield 
and  me  to  execute  tliis  design ; and  I having  fortunately  the 
sense  to  admit  Edmund’s  representations  that  the  style  of 
Michael  Angelo  was  not  exactly  adapted  to  thirteenth  cen- 
tury practice,  in  construction  of  a vitrail,  the  central  light 
was  arranged  by  him  on  more  modest  lines  ; and  the  result 
proved  on  the  whole  satisfactory  to  the  congregation,  who 
thereupon  desired  that  the  five  vertical  lights  might  be 
filled  in  the  same  manner.  I had  felt,  however,  through 
the  changes  made  on  my  Michael  Angelesque  cinquefoil, 
that  Mr.  Oldfield’s  knowledge  of  Gothic  style,  and  gift  in 
placing  color,  were  altogether  beyond  mine ; and  prayed 
him  to  carry  out  the  rest  of  the  window  by  himself.  Which 
he  did  with  perfect  success,  attaining  a delicate  brill- 
iancy purer  than  anything  I had  before  seen  in  modern 
glass. 

I should  have  been  more  crushed  by  this  result,  had  I not 
been  already  in  the  habit  of  feeling  worsted  in  everything  I 
tried  of  original  work  ; while  since  1842,  I was  more  and 
more  sure  of  my  faculty  of  seeing  the  beauty  and  meaning  of 
the  work  of  other  minds.  At  this  time,  I might  assuredly 
have  been  led  by  Edmund  Oldfield  into  a study  of  all  the 
painted  glass  in  England,  if  only  Edmund  had  been  a little 
more  happy  in  his  own  power  ; but  I suppose  his  immediate 
success  was  too  easy  to  divert  him  from  the  courses  of  study 
which  afterward  gave  him  his  high  position  in  the  British 
Museum,  not  enough  recognized  by  the  public,  and,  I believe, 
farther  obscured  by  the  ill-humor  or  temper  of  Mr.  Panizzi. 
If  only — I may  still  sometimes  indulge  in  a “ might  have 
been,”  for  my  friends — he  had  kept  to  Gothic  foils  and  their 
glass,  my  belief  is  that  Edmund  Oldfield  could  have  done  for 
England  great  part  of  what  Viollet  le  Due  did  for  France, 
with  the  same  earnestness,  and  with  thrice  the  sensibility. 
But  the  sensibility  taking  in  him  the  form  of  reserve,  and  the 
restless  French  energy  being  absent,  he  diffused  himself  in 


310 


PBJETEIUTA. 


serene  scholarship  till  too  late,  and  retired  from  the  collisions 
and  intrigues  of  the  Museum  too  early. 

Our  temporary  alliance  among  the  traceries  of  Camberwell 
had  for  immediate  consequence  to  me,  an  introduction  to  his 
family,  which  broke  the  monastic  laws  of  Denmark  Hill  to  the 
extent  of  tempting  me  to  a Christmas  revel  or  two  with  his 
pretty  sisters  ; Vv^hereat  I failed  in  my  part  in  every  game, 
and  whence  I retired  in  a sack-cloth  of  humiliation,  of  which 
the  tissue  had  at  once  the  weight  of  a wet  blanket,  and  the 
sting  of  horsehair. 

I have  only  once  named,  among  my  Christ  Church  com- 
panions, Charles  Newton.  He  was  considerably  my  senior, 
besides  being  a rightly  bred  scholar,  who  knew  his  grammar 
and  his  quantities  ; and,  while  yet  an  undergraduate,  was 
doing  accurately  useful  work  in  the  Architectural  Society. 
Without  rudely  depreciating  my  Proutesque  manner  of  draw- 
ing, he  represented  to  me  that  it  did  not  meet  all  the  anti- 
quarian purposes  of  that  body ; and,  always  under  protest,  I 
drew  a Norman  door  for  Newton,  (as  the  granite  veins  of 
Trewavas  Head  for  Dr.  Buckland,)  with  distinct  endeavor  to 
give  the  substantial  facts  in  each,  apparent  to  the  vulgar 
mind.  And  if  only — once  more  pardon,  good  reader,  but  this 
is  really  an  “if”  that  I cannot  resist — if  only  Newton  had 
learnt  Ii*ish  instead  of  Greek,  Scotch  instead  of  Egyptian,  and 
preferred,  for  light  reading,  the  study  of  the  Venerable  Bede 

to  that  of  Victor  Hugo, well,  the  British  Museum  might 

have  been  still  habitable  ; the  effigy,  as  the  bones,  of  Mauso- 
lus  would  have  rested  in  peace  ; and  the  British  public  known 
more  than  any  Idylls  of  kings  have  yet  told  them,  of  person- 
ages such  as  Arthur,  Alfred,  and  Charlemagne. 

There  remained  yet  some  possibilities,  even  after  Charles 
Newton  became  Attic  and  diplomatic,  of  some  heroic  attach- 
ment between  us,  in  the  manner  of  Theseus  and  Pirithous. 
In  fact,  for  some  years  after  my  Camberwell  window  and 
Campo  Santo  entanglements,  Theseus  retained,  I believe, 
some  hope  of  delivering  me  from  those  Lethean  chains  ; nor 
until  so  late  as  the  year  1850,  when,  as  we  crossed  the  great 
St.  Bernard  together,  Charles  spoke  heresies  against  the  Vah 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


311 


ley  of  Chamouni,  remarking,  with  respect  to  its  glacial  mo- 
raines, that  “ he  thought  more  housemaids  were  wanted  in  that 
establisliment,”  and  on  the  other  hand,  I exj^ressed  myself  re- 
specting the  virtues  of  diplomatists,  and  the  value  of  the 
opinions  of  the  British  Peerage  on  Art  and  Science,  in  a man- 
ner which  caused  Newton  to  observe  (not  without  foundation) 
that  “ there  was  the  making  of  Bobespierre  in  me,” — not  till 
then,  I repeat,  did  it  become  clear  to  either  of  us  that  the  de- 
cisions of  Minos  were  irrevocable. 

We  yet  examined  the  castle  of  Verrex  together,  as  once  the 
aisles  of  Dorchester  ; and  compared  in  peace,  at  Milan,  the 
Corinthian  graces  of  St.  Lorenzo  with  the  Lombardic  mon- 
sters of  St.  Ambrogio.  Early  the  next  morning  Newton  left 
me,  in  the  Albergo  Beale,  not  without  inner  tears  on  both 
sides,  and  went  eastward,  I know  not  where.  Ever  since,  we 
have  been  to  each  other,  he  as  the  Heathen,  and  I as  the  Pub- 
lican, both  of  us  finding  it  alike  ini  possible  to  hear  the  Church. 

The  transition  to  Denmark  Hill  had,  however,  in  the  first 
pride  of  it,  an  advantage  also  in  giving  our  family  Puritanism, 
promotion  to  a distinguished  pew  in  Camden  Chapel,  quite 
near  the  pulpit.  Henry  Melvill,  afterward  Principal  of 
Haileybury,  was  the  only  preacher  I ever  knew  whose  ser- 
mons were  at  once  sincere,  orthodox,  and  oratorical  on  Cice- 
ronian principles.  He  wrote  them  from  end  to  end  with 
polished  art,  and  read  them  admirably,  in  his  own  manner  ; 
by  which,  though  the  congregation  affectionately  expected  it, 
they  were  always  deeply  impressed.  He  arranged  his  sermon 
under  four  or  five  heads,  and  brought  each  in  its  turn  to  a 
vigorously  pointed  climax,  delivering  the  last  words  of  each 
paragraph  with  two  or  three  energetic  nods  of  his  head,  as  if 
he  were  hammering  that  much  of  the  subject  into  the  pulpit 
cushion  with  a round-headed  mallet.^  Then  all  the  congre- 

* The  hackneyed  couplet  of  Hudibras  respecting  clerical  use  of  the 
fist  on  the  pulpit  cushion  is  scarcely  understood  by  modern  readers,  be" 
cause  of  the  burlesqued  rhythm  leaning  falsely  on  the  vowel : — 

“ The  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

Is  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a stick.” 


312 


PRETERIT  A, 


gation  wiped  tbeir  eyes,  blew  their  noses,  coughed  the  coughs 
they  had  choked  over  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
settled  themselves  to  the  more  devoted  acceptance  of  the  next 
section. 

It  is  the  habit  of  many  good  men — as  it  was  confessedly, 
for  instance,  that  of  the  infant,  Samuel,  Wilberforce,  Bishop 
of  Oxford — not  to  allow  themselves  to  doubt  or  question  any 
part  of  Bible  teaching.  Plenry  Melvill,  being  of  the  same 
Episcopal  school,  and  dutifully  forbidding  himself  any  dan- 
gerous fields  of  inquiry,  explained  with  accuracy  all  that  was 
explicable  in  his  text,  and  argued  the  inexplicable  into  the 
plausible  with  great  zeal  and  feeling  ; — always  thoroughly 
convincing  himself  before  he  attempted  to  convince  his  con- 
gregation. __  

(It  may  be  noted  in  passing  that  Dean  Stanley,  on  the  other 
hand,  used  his  plausibility  to  convince  his  congregation  wdtli- 
out  convincing  himself,  or  committing  himself  to  anything  in 
particular ; while  Frederic  Maurice  secured  his  audiences’  re- 
ligious comfort,  by  turning  their  too  thorny  convictions  the 
other  side  up,  like  railroad  cushions.) 

The  couplet,  like  most  of  the  poem,  has  been  kept  in  memory  more  by 
the  liumor  of  its  manner  than  the  truth  of  its  wit,  I should  like  my- 
self to  expand  it  into — 

The  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

Keeps  time  to  truth  politely  plastic, 

And  wakes  the  Dead,  and  lulls  the  Quick, 

As  with  a death’s-head  on  a stick. 

Or,  in  the  longer  rhythm  of  my  old  diary — 

Who,  despots  of  the  ecclesiastic  drum, 

Roll  the  rogues’  muflled  march,  to  the  rogues’  “kingdom  come.” — 

For,  indeed,  since  I wrote  the  paragraph  about  the  pulpit  of  Torcello, 
in  The  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  II.,  Chap.  II.,  it  has  become  hourly 
more  manifest  to  me  how  far  the  false  eloquence  of  the  pulpit — whether 
Kettledrummle’s  at  Drumclog,  with  whom  it  is,  in  Gibbon’s  scornful 
terms,  “ tlie  safe  and  sacred  organ  of  sedition,”  or  the  apology  of  hired 
preachers  for  the  abuses  of  their  day — has  excited  the  most  dangerous 
passions  of  the  sects,  while  it  qiienched  the  refiner’s  fire  and  betrayed 
the  reproving  power  of  the  gospel. 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


313 


For  the  rest,  Mr.  Melvill  was  entirely  amiable  in  the  Church 
visitant,  though  not  formidable  in  the  Church  militant. 
There  were  not  many  poor  in  the  district  to  be  visited  ; but 
he  became  at  once  a kindly  and  esteemed  friend  to  us,  as, 
for  the  present,  serenely  feeding  lambs  of  his  flock  ; and  I 
shall  always  remember  gratefully  the  unoffended  smile  with 
which  one  day,  when  he  had  called  late,  and  I became  rest- 
less during  his  conversation  because  my  dinner  was  read}', 
lie  broke  off  his  talk,  and  said,  “Go  to  your  dinner.”  I was 
greatly  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  been  so  rude;  but  went 
to  my  dinner, — attended  better  to  Mr.  Melvill’s  x^reaching 
ever  afterward, — and  owe  to  him  all  sorts  of  good  help  in 
close  analysis,  but  especially  my  habit  of  always  looking,  in 
every  quotation  from  the  Bible,  what  goes  before  it  and 
after.^ 

Bnt  to  these  [Darticulars  I must  return  by  and  by  ; for  my 
business  in  this  cliax^ter  is  only  to  give  account  of  the  mate- 
rials and  mental  resources  with  which,  in  my  new  study  at 
Denmark  Hill,  looking  out  on  the 'meadow  and  the  two  cows, 
I settled  myself,  in  the  winter  of  1845,  to  write,  as  my  father 
now  justly  expected  me  to  do  wdtliout  farther  excuse,  the 
second  volume  of  “ Modern  Painters.” 

It  is  extremely  difficult  to  define,  much  more  to  exj^lain, 
the  religious  temper  in  which  I designed  that  second  volume. 
Whatever  I know  or  feel,  now,  of  the  justice  of  God,  the  no- 
bleness of  man,  and  the  beauty  of  nature,  I knew  and  felt 
then,  nor  less  strongly  ; but  these  firm  faiths  were  confused 
by  the  continual  discovery,  day  by  day,  of  error  or  limitation 
in  the  doctrines  I had  been  taught,  and  follies  or  inconsisten- 
cies in  their  teachers  : while  for  myself,  it  seemed  to  me  quite 
sure,  since  my  downfall  of  heart  on  last  leaving  France,  that 
I had  no  part  nor  lot  in  the  service  or  privileges  of  the  saints  ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  had  such  share  only  in  the  things  of 
God,  as  well-conducted  beasts  and  serenely-minded  birds  had  ; 

* I have  never  forgotten  his  noble  sermon,  one  day,  on  the  folly  of 
reading  “ Eye  hath  not  seen  the  tilings  God  has  prepared  for  them  that 
love  Him,”  without  going  on  to  the  end  of  the  verse,  “but  He  hath  re- 
vealed them  unto  us  by  His  Spirit.” 


314 


PBuETERITA, 


while,  even  among  the  beasts,  I had  no  claim  to  represent 
myself  figuratively  as  a lion  couchant,  or  eagle  volant,  but 
was,  at  my  best  and  proudest,  only  of  a doggish  and  piggish 
temper,  content  in  my  dog’s  chain,  and  with  my  pig’s-wash, 
in  spite  of  Carlyle  ; and  having  no  mind  whatever  to  win 
Heaven  at  the  price  of  conversion  like  St.  Ranier  s,  or  morti- 
fication like  St.  Bruno’s. 

And  that  my  father  much  concurred  with  me  in  these, 
partly  stubborn,  partly  modest,  sentiments,  appeared  curi- 
ously on  the  occasion  of  registering  his  arms  at  the  Heralds’ 
College  for  painting,  as  those  of  the  Bardi,  and  no  more  un- 
der the  Long  Acre  limitation,  “ vix  ea  nostra,”  on  the  panel 
of  his  own  brougham.  It  appeared,  on  inquiry  at  the  Her- 
alds’ Office,  that  there  was  indeed  a shield  appertaining  to  a 
family,  of  wffiom  nothing  particular  was  known,  by  the  name 
of  Rusken  : Sable,  a chevron,  argent,  between  six  lance-heads, 
argent.  This,  without  any  evidence  of  our  relation  to  the 
family,  we  could  not,  of  course,  be  permitted  to  use  without 
modification : but  the  King-at-xirms  registered  it  as  ours, 
with  the  addition  of  three  crosses  crosslets  on  the  chevron, 
gules,  (in  case  of  my  still  becoming  a clergyman  !)  ; and  we 
carried  home,  on  loan  from  the  college,  a book  of  crests  and 
mottoes  ; crests  being  open  to  choice  in  modern  heraldry,  (if 
one  does  not  by  chance  win  them,)  as  laconic  expressions  of 
personal  character,  or  achievement. 

Over  which  book,  I remember,  though  too  vaguely,  my 
father’s  reasoning  within  himself,  that  a merchant  could  not 
with  any  propriety  typify  himself  by  Lord  Marmion’s  falcon, 
or  Lord  Dudley’s  bear  ; that,  though  we  were  all  extremely 
fond  of  dogs,  any  doggish  crest  would  be  taken  for  an  ex- 
tremely minor  dog,  or  even  puppy,  by  the  public ; while  vul- 
pine types,  whether  of  heads  or  brushes,  were  wholly  out  of 
our  way  ; and  at  last,  faute  de  mieux,  and  with  some  idea,  I 
fancy,  of  the  beast’s  resolution  in  taking  and  making  its  own 
way  through  difficulties,  my  father,  with  the  assent,  if  not 
support,  of  my  mother  and  Mary,  fixed,  forsooth,  upon  a 
boar’s  head,  as  reasonably  proud,  without  claim  to  be  pa- 
trician ; under- wTitten  by  the  motto  ‘L4.ge  quod  agis/ 


TUE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


315 


Some  ten  or  twelve  years,  I suppose,  after  this,  beginning  to 
study  heraldry  with  attention,  I apprehended  that,  whether  a 
kiiigiit’s  war-cry,  or  a j)eaceful  yeoman’s  saying,  the  words  on 
the  scroll  of  a crest  could  not  be  a piece  of  advice  to  other 
people,  but  must  be  always  a declaration  of  the  bearer’s  own 
mind.  Whereupon  I changed,  on  my  own  seal,  the  “ Age 
quod  agis”  into  “To-day,”  tacitly  underlined  to  myself  with 
the  warning,  “ The  niglit  corneth,  when  no  man  can  work.” 
But  as  years  went  on,  and  the  belief  in  fortune,  and  fortune- 
telling,  which  is  finally  confessed  in  “ Fors  Clavigera,”  asserted 
itself  more  distinctly  in  my  private  philosophy,  I began  to  be 
much  exercised  in  mind  as  to  the  fortunate,  or  otherwise, 
meaning  of  my  father’s  choosing  a pig  for  my  crest ; and  that 
the  more,  because  I could  not  decide  whether  it  was  lawful 
for  me  to  adopt  the  Greek  mode  of  interpretation,  according 
to  which  I might  consider  myself  an  assistant  of  Hercules  in 
the  conquest  of  the  Erymanthian  boar,  or  was  restricted  to 
v,he  Gothic  reading  which  would  compel  me  to  consider  my- 
self a pig  in  persona, — (as  the  aforesaid  Marmion  a falcon,  or 
Albert  of  Geierstein  a vulture, — ) and  only  take  jn-ide  in  the 
strength  of  bristle,  and  curl  of  tusk,  which  occasioned,  in  my 
days  of  serious  critical  influence,  the  lament  of  the  Academi- 
cian in  Punch : 

“I  paints  and  paints, 

Hears  no  complaints, 

And  sells  before  I’m  dry, 

Till  savage  Ruskin 
Sticks  his  task  in. 

And  nobody  will  buy.” 

. Inclining,  as  time  went  on,  more  and  more  to  this  view  ol 
the  matter,  I rested  at  last  in  the  conviction  that  my  proto- 
type and  patron  saint  was  indeed,  not  Hercules,  but  St.  An- 
thony of  Padua,  and  that  it  might  in  a measure  be  recorded 
also  of  little  me  that  “ il  se  retira  d’abord  dans  une  solitude 
pen  eloignee  du  bourg  de  Come,  puis  dans  un  sepulcre  fort 
eloigne  de  ce  bourg,  enfin  dans  les  masures  d’un  vieux  cha- 
teau au-dessus  d’Heraclee,  oh  il  vecut  pendant  vingt  ans.  II 


316 


PRJETERITA. 


ii’est  pas  possible  de  raconter  tout  ce  qu’il  eut  a souffrir  clans 
ces  trois  retraites,  tant  par  les  rigueurs  qu’il  exerya  sur  lui- 
meine  que  par  la  malice  du  demon,  qui  mit  tout  en  03uvre 
pour  le  tromper  par  ses  artifices,  ou  pour  I’abattre  par  ses 
menaces  et  ses  mauvais  traitements,  qui  allerent  quelquefois 
jusqu’u  le  laisser  pour  mort  des  coups  qu’il  lui  donna.  An- 
toine triompha  de  tout  ; et  ce  fut  pour  le  recompense!'  de 
tant  de  combats  et  de  taut  de  victoires  que  Dieu  le  rendit 
puissant  en  oeuvres  et  en  paroles  pour  guerir  toutes  sortes  de 
maladies  spirituelles  et  corporelles,  cbasser  les  demons  aussi 
bien  des  corps  que  des  ames,  se  faire  obeir  par  les  betes  les 
plus  cruelles,  par  les  elements  et  les  autres  creatures  les  moins 
sournises  a la  volonte  de  I’liomme.”* 

I must  not,  however,  anticipate  the  course  of  this  eventful 
history  so  far  as  to  discuss  at  present  any  manner  of  the  re- 
semblance in  my  fate,  or  work,  or  home  companionships,  to 
those  of  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  ; but  may  record,  as  imme- 
diately significant,  the  delight  which  both  my  mother  and  I 
took  in  the  possession  of  a really  practical  pigsty  in  our 
Danish  farmyard,  (the  coach-house  and  stables  being  to  us  of 
no  importance  in  comparison  ;)  the  success  with  which  my 
mother  directed  the  nurture,  and  fattening,  of  the  piglings  ; 
the  civil  and  jovial  character  of  the  piglings  so  nurtured,  in- 
dicated especially  by  their  habit  of  standing  in  a row  on  their 
hind-legs  to  look  over  the  fence,  whenever  my  mother  came 
into  the  yard  ; and  conclusively  by  the  satisfaction  with 
which  even  our  most  refined  friends  would  accept  a present 
of  pork— or  it  might  be,  alas ! sometimes  of  sucking  pig — 
from  Denmark  Hill. 

The  following  (p.  317)  example  of  such  acknowledgments, 
addressed  to  my  father,  is  farther  interesting  in  its  post  (or 
side)  script,  referring  to  the  civil  war  in  Switzerland,  and  fix- 
ing, therefore,  the  letter,  otherwise  without  date  of  year,  to 
1845,  when  1 was  beginning  to  prepare  for  my  first  adventu- 
rous journey. 

* Dictionnaire  des  Sciences  Ecclesiastiques.  I assumed,  of  course,  in 
adopting  this  patron  saint,  that  he  would  have  the  same  domestic  pets 
as  St.  Anthony  of  the  Desert. 


THE  STATE  OF  DENMARK. 


317 


“ 47,  Queen  Ann  (no  street !)  West, 
“ Thursday,  27  Fe>’ 

“ My  dear  Sir, 

“ Have  the  goodness  to  offer  my  re- 
spectful thanks  to  Mrs.  Kuskin  for  the 
kind  present  of  a part  of  the  little  fat 

friends,  & its Portugal 

onions  for  stuffing  them  included,  &c., 

&c.  Hoping  you  are  all  well, 

“ Believe  me, 

“ Most  trill}"  obliged, 

“ J.  M.  W.  Turner.’’ 

“ J.  Buskin,  Esq.” 

Neither  do  I think  it  irrelevant,  in  this  place,  to  foretell 
that,  after  twenty  years’  various  study  of  the  piglet  character, 
(see,  for  instance,  the  account  of  the  comfort  given  me  by  the 
monastic  piglet  at  Assisi,f)  I became  so  resigned  to  the  adop- 
tion of  my  paternally  chosen  crest  as  to  v/rite  my  rhymed 
travelling  letters  to  Joan  J most  frequently  in  my  heraldic 
character  of  “ Little  Pig  ; ” or,  royally  plural,  “ Little  Pigs,” 
especially  when  these  letters  took  the  tone  of  confessions,  as 
for  instance,  from  Keswick,  in  1857  : — 

When  little  pigs  have  muffins  hot, 

And  take  three  quarters  for  their  lot, 

Then,  little  pigs— had  better  not. 


* Turner  always  indicates  by  these  long  lines  the  places  in  his  letters 
where  his  feelings  become  inexpressible. 

f “In  one  of  my  saddest  moods,  I got  some  wholesome  peace  and  re- 
freshment by  mere  sympathy  with  a Bewickiau  little  pig,  in  the  round- 
est and  couceitedest  burst  of  pig-blossom.'” — Fors,  Letter  XLVIH. 

I Now  Mrs,  Arthur  Severn. 


CD 


O 

B 

GO 


318 


PRJEJTERITA. 


And  again,  on  tlie  occasion  of  over-luncliing  myself  before  as^ 
cending  Ked  Pike,  in  the  same  year  : — 

•As  readers,  for  their  minds’  relief, 

Will  sometimes  double  down  a leaf. 

Or  rather,  as  good  sailors  reef 
Their  sails,  or  jugglers,  past  belief. 

Will  con-involve  a handkerchief — 

If  little  pigs,  when  time  is  brief, 

Will^  that  way,  double  up  their  beef, 

Then — little  pigs  will  come  to  grief. 

And  here  is  what  may,  it  seems  to  me,  gracefully  conclude 
this  present  chapter,  as  a pretty  and  pathetic  Pigwiggian 
chaunt,  from  Abbeville,  in  1858  : — 

If  little  pigs — when  evening  dapples, 

With  fading  clouds,  her  autumn  sky, — 

Set  out  in  search  of  Norman  Chapels, 

And  find,  instead,  where  cliffs  are  high. 

Half  way  from  Amiens  to  Etaples, 

A castle,  full  of  pears  and  apples. 

On  donjon  floors  laid  out  to  dry  ; 

— Green  jargonelles,  and  apples  tenny, — ■ 

And  find  their  price  is  five  a penny. 

If  little  pigs,  tlien,  buy  too  many, 

Spare  to  those  little  pigs  a sigh. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FE-^STS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 

The  reader  of  “ to-day  ” who  has  been  accustomed  to  hear 
me  spoken  of  by  the  artists  of  to-day  as  a superannuated  en- 
tliLisiast,  and  by  the  philosophers  of  to-day  as  a delirious  vi- 
sionary, will  scarcely  believe  with  what  serious  interest  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  second  volume  of  “Modern  Painters ’’was 
looked  for,  by  more  people  than  my  father  and  mother, — by 
people  even  belonging  to  the  slirewdest  literary  circles,  and 
highest  artistic  schools,  of  the  time. 


THE  FEASTS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 


319 


In  the  literary  world,  attention  was  first  directed  to  the  book 
by  Sydney  Smith,  in  the  hearing  of  my  severest  and  chiefly 
antagonist  master,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Dale,  who  with  candid 
kindness  sent  the  following  note  of  the  matter  to  my  father  : 

“ You  will  not  be  uninterested  to  hear  that  Mr.  Sydney 
Smith  (no  mean  authoL'ity  in  such  cases)  spoke  in  the  highest 
terms  of  your  son’s  work,  on  a public  occasion,  and  in  pres- 
ence of  several  distinguished  literary  characters.  He  said  it 
was  a work  of  transcendent  talent,  presented  the  most  orig- 
inal views,  and  the  most  elegant  and  powerful  language,  and 
would  work  a complete  revolution  in  the  world  of  taste.  Ho 
did  not  know,  when  he  said  this,  how  much  I was  interested 
in  the  author.” 

My  father  was  greatly  set  up  by  this  note,  though  the  form 
of  British  prudence  which  never  specifies  occasion  or  person, 
for  fear  of  getting  itself  into  a scrape,  is  provokingly  illus- 
trated by  its  imperfect  testimony.  But  it  mattered  little  who 
the  other  “literary  characters”  might  have  been,  for  Sydney’s 
verdict  was  at  this  time,  justly,  final,  both  in  general  society 
and  among  the  reviewers  ; and  it  was  especially  fortunate  for 
me  that  he  had  been  trained  in  his  own  youth,  first  by  Dugald 
Stewart,  and  then  b}'  the  same  Dr.  Thomas  Brown  who  had 
formed  my  father’s  mind  and  directed  his  subsequent  reading. 
And,  indeed,  all  the  main  principles  of  metaphysics  asserted 
in  the  opening  of  “Modern  Painters”  had  been,  with  conclu- 
sive decision  and  simplicity,  laid  down  by  Sydney  himself  in 
lectures  he  gave  on  Moral  Philosophy  at  the  Royal  Institution 
in  the  years  1804-5-6,  of  which  he  had  never  enough  him- 
self recognized  the  importance.  He  amplified  and  embodied 
some  portions  of  them  afterward  in  the  Edinburgh  Bevieiv  ; 
but  “ considering  that  what  remained  could  be  of  no  farther 
use,  he  destrojmd  several,  and  was  proceeding  to  destroy  the 
whole,  when,  entreaty  being  made  by  friends  that  thejiortions 
not  yet  torn  up  might  be  spared,  their  request  was  granted  ; ” * 
and  those  despised  fragments,  published  in  1850  under  the 
title  of  “ Elementary  Sketches  of  Moral  Philosophy,”  contain. 


* See  note  to  Introduction,  in  the  edition  of  1850. 


320 


PB^TERITA. 


in  the  simplest  and  securest  terms,  eveiy  final  truth  which  an^? 
rational  mortal  needs  to  learn  on  that  subject. 

Had  those  lectures  been  printed  five  years  sooner,  and  then 
fallen  in  my  way,  the  second  volume  of  ‘‘Modern  Painters” 
would  either  never  have  been  written  at  all,  or  written  with 
thankful  deference  to  the  exulting  wit  and  gracious  eloquence 
with  which  Sydney  had  discerned  and  adorned  all  that  I 
wished  to  establish,  twenty  years  before. 

To  the  modern  student,  who  has  heard  of  Sydney  Smith 
only  as  a jester,  I commend  the  two  following  passages,  as  ex- 
amples of  the  most  wise,  because  most  noble,  thought,  and 
most  impressive,  because  steel-true,  language,  to  be  found  in 
English  literature  of  the  living,  as  distinguished  from  the 
classic,  schools  : — 

“But  while  I am  descanting  so  minutely  upon  the  conduct 
of  the  understanding,  and  the  best  modes  of  acquiring  knowl- 
edge, some  men  may  be  disposed  to  ask,  ‘ Why  conduct  my 
understanding  with  such  endless  care  ? and  what  is  the  use 
of  so  much  knowledge  ? ’ What  is  the  use  of  so  much  knowl- 
edge ? — what  is  the  use  of  so  much  life  ! What  are  we  to  do 
with  the  seventy  years  of  existence  allotted  to  us?  and  how 
are  we  to  live  them  out  to  the  last?  I solemnly  declare  that, 
but  for  the  love  of  knowledge,  I should  consider  the  life  of  the 
meanest  hedger  and  ditcher  as  preferable  to  that  of  the  great- 
est and  richest  man  here  present ; for  the  fire  of  our  minds 
is  like  the  fire  which  the  Persians  burn  in  the  mountains, — 
it  fiames  night  and  day,  and  is  immortal,  and  not  to  be 
quenched  ! Upon  something  it  mui<t  act  and  feed, — upon  the 
pure  spirit  of  knowledge,  or  upon  the  foul  dregs  of  polluting 
passions.  Therefore,  when  I say,  in  conducting  your  under- 
standing, love  knowledge  with  a great  love,  with  a vehement 
love,  with  a love  coeval  with  life,  wliat  do  I say,  but  love  in- 
nocence, love  virtue,  love  purity  of  conduct,  love  that  which, 
if  you  are  rich  and  great,  will  sanctify  the  blind  fortune 
which  has  made  you  so,  and  make  men  call  it  justice  ; love 
that  which,  if  you  are  poor,  will  render  your  jwverty  respect- 
able, and  make  the  proudest  feel  it  unjust  to  laugh  at  the 
meanness  of  your  fortunes  ; love  that  which  will  comfort  you, 


THE  FEASTS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 


'191 

JL 

adorn  you,  and  never  quit  you, — wbicli  will  open  to  you  the 
kiugdom  of  thought,  and  all  the  boundless  regions  of  concept 
tioij,  as  an  asylum  against  the  cruelty,  the  injustice,  and  the 
pain  that  may  be  your  lot  in  the  outer  world, — that  which 
will  make  your  motives  habitually  great  and  honorable,  and 
light  up  in  an  instant  a thousand  noble  disdains  at  the  very 
thought  of  meanness  and  of  fraud  ! Therefore,  if  any  young 
man  here  have  embarked  his  life  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  let 
him  go  on  without  doubting  or  fearing  the  event ; let  him 
not  be  intimidated  by  the  cheerless  beginnings  of  knowledge, 
by  the  darkness  from  which  she  springs,  by  the  difficulties 
wLich  hover  around  her,  by  the  v/retched  habitations  in 
which  she  dwells,  by  the  want  and  sorrow  which  sometimes 
journey  in  her  train  ; but  let  him  ever  follow  her  as  tlie 
Angel  that  guards  him,  and  as  the  Genius  of  his  life.  She 
will  bring  him  out  at  last  into  the  light  of  day,  and  exhibit 
him  to  the  world  comprehensive  in  acquirements,  fertile  in 
I'esources,  rich  in  imagination,  strong  in  reasoning,  prudent 
and  powerful  above  his  fellows  in  all  the  relations  and  in  all 
the  offices  of  life.” 

“ The  history  of  the  world  shows  us  that  men  are  not  to  be 
counted  by  their  numbers,  but  by  the  fire  and  vigor  of  their 
passions  ; by  their  deep  sense  of  injury  ; by  their  memory  of 
past  glory  ; by  their  eagerness  for  fresh  fame  ; by  their  clear 
and  steady  resolution  of  ceasing  to  live,  or  of  achieving  a 
particular  object,  which,  when  it  is  once  formed,  strikes  off  a 
load  of  manacles  and  chains,  and  gives  free  space  to  all  heav- 
venly  and  heroic  feelings.  All  great  and  extraordinary  ac- 
tions come  from  the  heart.  There  are  seasons  in  human  af- 
fairs when  qualities,  fit  enough  to  conduct  the  common  busi- 
ness of  life,  are  feeble  and  useless,  and  when  men  must  trust 
to  emotion  for  that  safety  which  reason  at  such  times  can 
never  give.  These  are  the  feelings  which  led  the  ten  thou- 
sand over  the  Carduchian  mountains ; these  are  the  feelings 
by  which  a handful  of  Greeks  broke  in  pieces  the  power  of 
Persia:  they  have,  by  turns,  humbled  Austria,  reduced 
Spain  ; and  in  the  fens  of  the  Dutch,  and  in  the  mountains 
of  the  Swiss,  defended  the  happiness,  and  revenged  the  op- 
21 


PBJETERITA. 


322 

j:)ressioiis  of  man  ! God  calls  all  the  passions  out  in  their 
keenness  and  vigor,  for  the  present  safety  of  mankind.  An- 
ger, and  revenge,  and  the  heroic  mind,  and  a readiness  to 
suffer  ; — all  the  secret  strength,  all  the  invisible  array  of  the 
feelings  ; — all  that  nature  has  reserved  for  the  great  scenes 
of  the  world.  For  the  usual  hopes,  and  the  common  aids 
of  man,  are  all  gone  ! Kings  have  perished,  armies  are  sub- 
dued, nations  mouldered  away  ! Nothing  remains,  under 
God,  but  those  passions  which  have  often  proved  the  best 
ministers  of  His  vengeance,  and  the  surest  protectors  of  the 
world.'’ 

These  two  passages  of  Sydney’s  express,  more  than  any 
others  I could  have  chosen  out  of  what  I know  of  modern 
literature,  the  roots  of  everything  I had  to  learn  and  teach 
during  my  own  life;  the  earnestness  with  which  I followed 
what  was  possible  to  me  in  science,  and  tfie  passion  with 
which  I was  beginning  to  recognize  the  nobleness  of  the  arts 
and  range  of  the  powers  of  men. 

It  was  a natural  consequence  of  this  passion  that  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  art-circles,  in  praise  of  whose  leading  members 
the  first  volume  of  “ Modern  Painters  ” had  been  expressly 
written,  was  withheld  from  me  much  longer  than  that  of  the 
general  reader  ; while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  old  Homan 
feuds  with  George  Hichmond  were  revived  by  it  to  the  utter- 
most ; and  although,  with  amused  interest  in  my  youthful 
enthusiasm,  and  real  affection  for  my  father,  he  painted  a 
charming  water-color  of  me  sitting  at  a picturesque  desk  in 
the  open  air,  in  a crimson  waistcoat  and  wliite  trousers,  with 
a magnificent  port-crayon  in  my  hand,  and  Mont  Bfanc, 
conventionalized  to  Haphaelesque  grace,  in  the  distance, 
the  utmost  of  serious  opinion  on  my  essay  which  my  father 
could  get  from  him  was  that  I should  know  better  in 
time.” 

But  the  following  letter  from  Samuel  Prout,  written  just 
at  the  moment  when  my  father’s  pride  in  the  success  of  the 
book  was  fast  beguiling  him  into  admission  of  its  authorship, 
at  least  in  our  own  friendly  circle,  expresses  with  old-fash- 
ioned courtesy,  but  with  admirable  simplicity  and  firmness, 


THE  EEABT8  OE  THE  VANDALS. 


823 


the  first  impression  made  by  my  impetuous  outburst  on  th© 
most  sensible  and  sincere  members  of  the  true  fellowship  of 
English  artists,  who  at  that  time  were  doing  each  the  best 
he  could  in  his  own  quiet  way,  without  thouglit  either  of 
contention  with  living  rivals,  or  of  comparing  their  modest 
work  to  the  masterpieces  of  former  time. 


“Hastings,  July  2d,  1843. 

“Dear  Sir:  I beg  to  apologize  for  not  sooner  acknowledg- 
ing,  with  my  best  thanks,  }^our  kindness  in  adding  another  to 
many  obligations. 

“Please  to  believe  that  I am  ambitious  of  meriting  your 
many  acts  of  kind  consideration,  but  I am  ashamed  and 
vexed  to  feel  a consciousness  of  apparent  rudeness,  and  a trial 
of  patience  which  nothing  can  extenuate.  I much  fear  that 
my  besetting  sin  of  idleness  in  letter-writing  has  been  dis- 
jjleasing  to  you,  although  your  note  is  politely  silent  on  the 
subject. 

1 am  sorry  to  say  that  for  months  together  my  spirits 
have  sunk  so  low,  that  every  duty  and  every  kindness  have 
been  sadly  neglected. 

“In  consequence  of  this  nervous  inactivity,  the  Water 
Color  Exhibition  contains  almost  all  I have  been  able  to  ac- 
complish since  last  year.  The  drawing  of  Petrarch’s  House, 
which  you  wished  me  to  make,  was  finished  some  time  since, 
but  is  so  unlike  what  I am  sure  you  expected,  that  I deferred 
saying  au^dhing  about  it  till  another  was  made.  Alas  ! the 
things  I ought  to  have  done  have  not  been  done.  I intended 
bringing  it  to  town  with  me,  and  asking  the  favor  that  it 
might  remain  in  your  |)ossession  till  I had  made  something 
more  worthy.  My  trip  to  town  has  been  put  off  month  after 
month,  and  I expect  the  resolution  vvdll  not  awake  till  the 
last  day  of  seeing  sights.  Should  you  not  be  in  town,  both 
drawings  shall  be  left  at  Foord’s.* 


* The  letters  quoted  in  the  text  of  Praeterita  will  always  he  given 
without  omissions  even  of  trivial  passages.  Of  tliose  arranged  in  Di- 
lecta,  I give  only  the  portions  which  seem  to  me  likely  to  interest 


324: 


PR^TERITA. 


“ Permit  me  to  say  that  I have  been  indulged  with  a hasty 
perusal  of  a work  on  art  and  artists  by  ‘ A Graduate  of  Ox- 
ford.’ I read  the  volume  with  intense  interest,  the  sentiments 
and  language  riveting  my  attention  to  every  page.  But  I 
mourn  lest  such  splendid  means  of  doing  eminent  service  to 
art  should  be  lost.  Had  the  work  been  witten  with  the 
courteousness  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’  lectures,  it  would  have 
been  a ‘standard  work,’  the  author  held  in  high  estimation 
for  his  learniug,  and  the  volume  recommended  for  instruc- 
tion and  usefulness.  Perhaps  nothing  helps  more  certainly 
to  an  accession  of  influence,  and  an  accumulating  power  of 
doing  good,  than  the  language  in  which  w'e  dictate.  We  ap- 
proach an  unassuming  courteous  manner  with  respect,  con- 
fldence,  and  satisfaction,  but  most  persons  shrink  back  from 
sarcasm.  Certainly  every  author  who  writes  to  do  good 
will  write  with  firmness  and  candor,  cleaving  to  what  is  right, 
but  cautious  of  giving  j)ain  or  offence. 

“ I hope  some  day  to  give  the  book  a more  careful  peru- 
sal ; it  made  me  think,  and  when  I lay  hold  of  it  again,  I 
will  endeavor  to  test  it  by  my  experience  and  the  judgment 
of  others  ; and  as  I have  a little  cooled  from  the  rage  I felt 
at  first  to  find  my  ‘ darlings  ’ set  at  nought,  I trust  in  spite 
of  its  biting  bitterness  I shall  feel  more  ashamed  of  myself, 
and  more  respect  for  the  opinions  of  the  author. 

“ Pardon,  dear  sir,  this  presuming  to  tire  your  patience 
with  my  humble  opinions  ; and  should  it  be  true  what  I have 
just  heard,  that  you  know  the  author,  I will  rely  on  your 
goodness  to  forgive  my  objection  to  opinions  in  which  you 
are  so  much  interested. 

“ If  it  is  so,  you  are  indeed  honored,  and  I trust  the 
powerful  ‘ angel-bright  talent  ’ will  be  directed  to  do  much 
good  for  art  and  artists.  Pray  give  me  credit  for  sincerity 
in  acknowledging  that  it  is  art  generally  I feel  for,  and  as 
far  as  I 'am  individually  mentioned,  I am  pleased  to  find  that 
I have  come  off  beautifully. 

the  reader  ; and  even  take  leave  to  drop  superfluous  sentences  without 
stars  or  other  note  of  the  omission,  but  so  that  tlie  absolute  meaning 

the  writer  shall  be  always  kept. 


THE  FEASTS  OF  TEE  VANDALS. 


325 

“ I did  not  intend  to  write  so  much.  Kindly  pardon  quan- 
tity and  quality, 

“ And  believe  me  to  remain,  dear  sir, 

“ With  the  greatest  respect, 

“ Yours  truly  and  obliged, 

“S.  Prout. 

“ J,  J.  Ruskin,  Esq., 

&c.,  &c.,  &c.” 


I must  guard  myself,  however,  very  distinctly  in  giving  this 
letter  as  an  example  of  the  general  feeling  about  the  book 
among  the  living  painters  whom  it  praised,  against  attrib- 
uting to  them  an}'  such  admiration  of  my  “ angel-bright 
talent  ” as  that  here  expressed  by  my  father’s  affectionate, 
and  now  intimate,  friend.  The  group  of  landscapists,  head- 
„ ed  by  Copley  Fielding,  David  Cox,  and  P.  de  \ATnt  in  the 
I old  Water  Color  Society,  and  by  David  Koberts  and  Clark- 
son Stanfield  in  the  Academy  (Turner  being  wholly  excep- 
, tional,  and  a wild  meteoric  phenomenon  in  the  midst  of 
them,  lawless  alike  and  scholarless) — this  group  of  very  char- 
[i  acteristically  English  landscape  painters  had  been  well 

j grounded,  every  one  of  them,  more  or  less,  in  the  ortho- 

dox old  English  faith  in  Dutch  painting  ; had  studied  it  so 
r.  as  to  know  the  difficulty  of  doing  anything  as  good  in  its 

* way  ; and  whether  in  painting  or  literature,  had  studied 

very  little  else.  Of  an}'  qualities  or  talents  “ angel-bright,” 
past  or  present,  except  in  the  rather  alarming  than  dignified 
explosions  round  the  stable  lantern  which  sometimes  take 
place  in  a “Eembrandt  Nativity,”  “ Vision  to  the  Shepherds,” 
j or  the  like,  none  of  them  had  ever  felt  the  infiuence,  or  at- 

t tempted  the  conception  ; the  religious  Itahaii  schools  were 

as  little  known  at  that  time,  to  either  arlist  or  connoisseur, 
as  the  Japanese,  and  the  highest  scholarly  criticisni  with 
r which  I had  first  come  to  handgrips  in  Blavkicood , reached 
no  higher  than  a sketching  amateur’s  acquaintance  with  the 
i manner  of  Salvator  and  Caspar  Poussin.  Takeji  as  a body, 

j the  total  group  of  “ Modern  Painters  ” were,  therefore, 

i more  startled  than  flattered  by  my  schismatic  praise  ; the 


326 


PB^TERITA. 


modest  ones,  such  as  Fielding,  Prout,  and  Stanfield,  felt  that 
it  was  more  than  they  deserved, — and,  moreover,  a little  be- 
side the  mark  and  out  of  their  way  ; the  conceited  ones, 
such  as  Harding  and  De  Wint,  were  angry  at  the  position 
given  to  Turner  ; and  I am  not  sure  that  any  of  them  were 
ready  even  to  endorse  George  Richmond’s  consoling  assur- 
ance to  my  father,  that  I should  know  better  in  time. 

But,  with  all  the  kindness  of  heart,  and  appreciation  of 
domestic  character,  partly  humorous,  partly  pathetic,  which 
gave  its  prevailing  tone  to  the  British  school  of  the  day,  led 
by  Wilkie,  Leslie,  and  Mulread}^  the  entire  fellowship  of 
artists  with  whom  we  were  acquainted  s^^mpathized  with 
the  partly  quaint,  altogether  pure,  strong,  and  always  genial, 
home-life  of  my  father  and  mother  ; nor  less  with  their  anx- 
ious devotion  to  their  son,  and  the  hopes  they  entertained 
for  him.  Nor,  I suppose,  w^as  my  own  status  at  Denmark 
Hill  without  something  honorably  notable  to  men  of  the 
world,  in  that,  refusing  to  enter  my  father’s  business,  I yet 
stayed  serenely  under  his  authority,  and,  in  what  seemed  to 
me  my  own  proper  line  of  work,  did  my  utmost  to  please 
him.  And  when  (I  anticipate  now  the  progress  of  the  next 
four  or  five  years) — Avhen  on  any,  to  us,  peculiarly  festive  oc- 
casion,— the  return  from  a journey,  publication  of  a new  vol- 
ume, anniversary  of  a birthday,  or  the  like, — we  ventured  to 
ask  our  artist  friends  to  rejoice  with  us,  most  of  them  came, 
I believe  with  real  pleasure.  The  early  six  o’clock  dinner 
allowed  them  usually  a pleasant  glance  over  the  meadow  and 
the  Norwood  Hill  in  the  evening  light ; the  table  was  just 
short  enough  to  let  the  talk  flow  round  without  wandering 
into  eddies,  or  lingering  into  confidences  ; there  was  no  guest 
whom  the  others  did  not  honor ; there  was  neither  effort, 
afiectation,  nor  restraint  in  the  talk.  If  the  painters  cared  to 
say  anything  of  pictures,  they  knew  they  would  be  under- 
stood ; if  they  chose  rather  to  talk  of  sherry,  my  father  could, 
and  would  with  delight,  tell  them  more  about  it  than  any 
other  person  knew  in  either  England  or  Spain  ; and  when 
the  candles  came,  and  the  good  jests,  over  the  nuts  and  olives, 
there  was  “ frolic  wine  ” in  the  flask  at  every  right  hand. 


THE  FEA8T8  OF  THE  VANDAL8.  327 

siicli  as  that  never  Prince  Hal  nor  Jack  Falstaff  tasted  cup 
of  brighter  or  mightier. 

I somewhat  admire  in  myself,  at  this  time,  though  I per- 
ceive it  to  have  been  greatly  owing  to  want  of  imagination, 
the  simplicity  of  affection  with  which  I kept  hold  on  my 
Cumberland  moors,  Calais  sands,  Jind  French  costumes  and 
streets, — as  contrasted  with  the  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevada, 
the  surges  of  Trafalgar,  and  the  towers  of  Seville  and 
Granada  ; of  all  which  I continually  heard  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  wonderful  scenery  and  architecture  of  the  European 
world  ; and  in  the  very  midst  of  which — in  the  lieart  of  Anda- 
lusia, and  on  the  very  battle-held  of  Xeres  de  la  Frontera 
Avhich  gave  the  Arab  his  dominion  in  Spain — I might  have 
been  adopted  by  my  father’s  partner  to  reign  over  his  golden 
vineyards,  and  write  the  histories  of  the  first  Caliphs  of 
Arabia  and  the  Catholic  Kings  of  Spain. 

It  chanced,  however, — or  mischanced, — for  better  or  worse, 
that  in  the  meantime  I knew  no  more  the  histories  of  either 
Arabia  or  Spain  than  Eobinson  Crusoe  or  his  boy  Xury  ; tliat 
the  absolutely  careful  and  faithful  work  of  David  Eoberts 
showed  me  the  inconstructive  and  merely  luxurious  character 
of  Spanish  and  Arab  buildings ; and  that  the  painter  of 
greatest  power,  next  to  Turner,  in  the  English  school,  J.  F. 
Lewis,  rendered  the  facts  of  existing  Andalusian  life  so 
vividly,  as  to  leave  me  no  hope  of  delighting  or  distinguishing 
myself  in  any  constant  relations  either  with  its  gayety  or  its 
pride. 

Looking  back  to  my  notice  of  these  and  other  contempo- 
rary artists  in  tlie  paragraphs  added  to  the  first  volume  of 
“Modern  Painters,”  when  I corrected  its  sheets  at  Sestri  di 
Levante,  in  1846,  I find  the  display  of  my  new  Italian  in- 
formation, and  assertion  of  critical  acumen,  prevail  sorrow- 
full}^  over  the  expressions  of  gratitude  with  wdiich  I ought  to 
have  described  the  help  and  delight  they  had  given  me. 
Now,  too  late,  I can  only  record  with  more  than  sorrow  the 
passing  away  from  the  entire  body  of  men  occupied  in  the 
arts,  of  the  temper  in  which  these  men  woiked.  It  is—- 1 
cannot  count  how  many  years,  since,  on  all  our  walls  of 


328 


PB^TEMITA. 


recklessly  ambitious  displaj^  I have  seen  one  drawing  of  any 
place  loved  for  its  own  sake,  or  understood  with  unselfish 
intelligence.  Whether  men  themselves,  or  their  buildings, 
or  the  scenery  in  which  they  live,  the  only  object  of  the 
draughtsman,  be  he  great  or  small,  is  to  overpower  the 
public  mind  wdth  his  greatness,  or  catch  it  with  his  small- 
ness. My  notions  of  Rome,  says  Mr.  Alma  Tadema  ; Mine  of 
Venice,  says  Miss  Clara  Montalba  ; Ours  of  Belgravia  and 
Brighton,  say  the  public  and  its  Graphics,  with  unani- 
mous egotism ; — and  what  sensational  effects  can  be 
wrung  out  of  China  or  New  Zealand,  or  the  miseries  and 
follies  of  mankind  anywhere.  Exact  knowledge  enough — 
yes,  let  us  have  it  to  fill  our  pockets  or  swell  our  pride  ; but 
the  beauty  of  wild  nature  or  modest  life,  except  for  the  sake 
of  our  own  picnics  or  perquisites,  none  care  to  know,  or  to 
save. 

And  it  is  wholly  vain,  in  this  state  of  the  popular  mind,  to 
try  to  explain  the  phase  of  art  in  which  I was  brought  up,  and 
of  which — little  thinking  how  soon  it  was  to  pass  away — I 
wrote  so  ungratefully. 

Absolutely  careful  and  faithful,  I said,  David  Roberts  was, 
though  in  his  own  restricted  terms ; fastening  on  the  constant 
aspect  of  any  place,  and  drawing  that  in  gray  shade,  and  so 
much  of  what  might  pass  for  light  as  enough  showed  magni- 
tude, distance,  and  grace  of  detail.  He  was  like  a kind  of 
gray  mirror  ; he  gave  the  greatness  and  richness  of  things, 
and  such  height  and  space,  and  standing  of  wall  and  rock, 
as  one  saw  to  be  true ; and  with  unwearied  industry,  both  in 
Egypt  and  Spain,  brought  home  records  of  which  the  value 
is  now  forgotten  in  the  perfect  detail  of  photography,  and 
sensational  realism  of  the  effects  of  light  which  Holman  Hunt 
first  show^ed  to  be  possible.  The  minute  knowledge  and 
acute  sensation  throw  us  back  into  ourselves  ; haunting  us  to 
the  examination  of  points  and  enjoyment  of  moments  ; but 
one  imagined  serenely  and  joyfully,  from  the  old  drawings, 
the  splendor  of  the  aisles  of  Seville  or  the  strength  of  the 
towers  of  Granada,  and  forgot  one’s  self,  for  a time. 

The  work  of  John  Lewis  was  a mirror  of  men  only — of 


THE  FEASTS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 


329 


I building  and  scenery  as  backgrounds  for  them  ; all  alike  ren- 
’ dered  with  an  intensity  of  truth  to  the  external  life,  which 
j nothing  has  resembled  before  or  since.  But  it  was  the  ex- 
j ternal  and  animal  life  only.  Lewis  saw  in  men  and  women 
j only  the  most  beautiful  of  living  creatures,  and  painted  them 
as  he  did  dogs  and  deer,  but  with  a perception  of  their  nature 
: and  race  which  laughs  to  scorn  all  the  generic  study  of  the 

= scientific  schools.  Neither  Andalusian  nor  Arab,  Turk  nor 
1 Circassian,  had  been  painted  before  his  time,  any  more  than 
j described  before  Byron’s  ; and  the  endeavors  at  representa- 
1 tion  of  Oriental  character  or  costume  which  accompany  the 
i travels  of  even  the  best-educated  English  travellers  either  dur- 
i ing  or  immediately  after  the  Peninsular  war,  are  without  ex- 
> ception  the  clumsiest,  most  vulgar,  and  most  ludicrous  pieces 
) of  work  that  ever  disgraced  draughtsman,  savage  or  civil. 

No  artist  that  ever  I read  of  was  treated  with  such  injustice 
I by  the  people  of  his  time  as  John  Lewis.  There  was  some- 
I tliing  un-English  about  him,  which  separated  him  from  the 
j good-humored  groups  of  established  fame  whose  members 
I abetted  or  jested  with  each  other  ; feeling  that  every  one  of 
I them  had  something  to  be  forgiven,  and  that  each  knew  the 
i other’s  trick  of  trade.  His  resolute  industiy  was  inimitable  ; 
his  color — founded  either  on  the  frankness  of  southern  sun- 
light, or  on  its  subtle  reflections  and  diffusions  through  lat- 
ticed tracery  and  silken  tent — resembled  nothing  that  could 
be  composed  in  a London  studio  ; while  the  absence  of  bra- 
vado, sentiment,  or  philosophy  in  his  subjects — the  total  sub- 
jection alike  of  the  moral  and  immoral,  the  lieroic  and  the 
sensual,  to  the  mere  facts  of  animal  beauty,  and  grace  of  dec- 
oration left  him  without  any  power  of  appeal  eitlier  to  ilie 
domestic  simplicity  or  personal  pride  of  the  ordinary  English 
mind.  In  artistic  power  and  feeling  he  had  much  in  com- 
mon witii  Paul  Veronese  : but  Paolo  had  the  existing  i)omi) 

I and  the  fading  religion  of  Venice  to  give  his  work  hold  on  the 
I national  heart,  and  epic  unity  in  its  design  ; while  poor  Lewis 
did  but  render  more  vividly  with  all  liis  industry,  the  toy 
contrabandista  or  matador  of  my  mother’s  chimney-piece. 

Ho  never  dined  witli  us  as  our  other  painter  friends  did  ; 


330 


PB^TEBITA. 


but  liis  pictures,  as  long  as  he  worked  in  Spain,  were  an  ex- 
trejnely  important  element  in  both  my  father’s  life  and  mine. 

I have  not  yet  enough  explained  the  real  importance  of  my 
father’s  house,  in  its  command  of  that  Andalusian  wine  dis- 
trict. Modern  maps  of  Spain,  covered  with  tracks  of  rail- 
road, show  no  more  the  courses  either  of  Guadalquiver  or 
Guadiana  ; the  names  of  railway  stations  overwhelm  those 
of  the  old  cities  ; and  every  atlas  differs  from  every  other  in 
its  placing  of  the  masses  of  the  Sierras, — if  even  the  existence 
of  the  mountain  ranges  be  acknowledged  at  all. 

But  if  the  reader  will  take  ten  minutes  of  pains,  and  an- 
other ten  of  time,  to  extricate,  with  even  the  rudest  sketch, 
the  facts  of  value  from  the  chaos  of  things  inscrutably  use- 
less, in  any  fairly  trustworthy  map  of  Spain,  he  will  perceive 
that  between  the  Sierra  Morena  on  the  north,  and  Sierra 
Nevada  on  the  south,  the  Guadalquiver  flows  for  two  hun- 
dred miles  through  a valley  fift}^  miles  wide,  in  the  exact 
midst  of  which  sits  Cordova,  and  half-way  between  Cordova 
and  the  sea,  Seville  ; and  on  the  Royal  Harbor,  Puerto  Real, 
at  the  sea-shore, — Cadiz  ; ten  miles  above  which,  toward  Se- 
ville, he  will  find  the  “Xeres  de  la  Frontera,”  to  which,  as  a 
golden  centre  of  Bacchic  commerce,  all  the  vineyards  of  that 
great  valley  of  Andalusia,  Vandalusia,  or,  as  Mr.  Ford  puts  it, 
I believe  more  probably,  land  of  the  west,  send  down  their  sun- 
browned  juice  ; the  ground  of  Macharnudo  on  Mr.  Domecq’s 
estate  at  Xeres  itself  furnishing  the  w^hite  wine  of  strongest 
body  in  Europe. 

The  power  which  Mr.  Domecq  had  acknowledged  in  my 
father,  by  making  him  head  partner  in  his  firm,  instead  of 
merely  his  English  agent,  ruled  absolutely  at  Xeres  over  the 
preparation  of  the  wines  : and,  by  insisting  always  on  the 
maintenance  of  their  purity  and  quality  at  the  highest  attain- 
able standard,  gave  the  house  a position  which  was  only  in 
part  expressed  by  its  standing,  until  Mr.  Domecq’s  death,  al- 
Avays  at  the  head  in  the  list  of  importers.  That  list  gave  only 
the  number  of  butts  of  wine  imported  by  each  firm,  but  did 
not  specify  their  price  ; still  less  could  it  specify  the  relation 
of  price  to  value.  Mr.  Domecq’s  two  or  three  thousand  butts 


THE  FEASTS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 


331 


were,  for  the  most  peart,  old  wiue,  of  which  the  supply  had 
been  secured  for  half  a century  by  the  consistent  prudence  of 
putting  the  new  vintages  in  at  one  end  of  cellars  some  quar- 
ter of  a mile  long,  and  taking  the  old  vintages  out  at  the 
other.  I do  not,  of  course,  mean  that  such  transaction  was 
literally  observed  ; but  that  the  vulgar  impatience  to  “ turn 
over”  capital  was  absolutely  forsworn,  in  the  steady  pur- 
pose of  producing  the  best  wiue  that  could  be  given  for  the 
highest  price  to  which  the  British  public  would  go.  As  a 
rule,  sherry  drinkers  are  soundly-minded  persons,  who  do  not 
choose  to  spend  a guinea  a glass  on  anything  ; and  the  high- 
est normal  price  for  Mr.  Domecq’s  “ double-cross  ” sherry  was 
eighty  pounds  a butt  ; rising  to  two  hundred  for  the  older 
'wines,  which  were  only  occasionally  imported.  The  highest 
price  ever  given  was  six  hundred  ; but  this  was  at  a loss  to 
the  house,  which  onlj'’  allowed  wine  to  attain  the  age  which 
such  a price  represented  in  order  to  be  able  to  supply,  by 
the  mixture  of  it  with  younger  vintage,  whatever  quality  the 
English  consumer,  in  any  fit  of  fashion,  might  desire. 

On  the  whole,  the  sales  varied  little  from  }'ear  to  year,  vir- 
tuall}’’  representing  the  quantity  of  wine  annually  produced 
by  the  estate,  and  a cei’tain  quantity  of  the  drier  Amontillado, 
from  the  hill  districts  of  Moiitilla,  and  some  lighter  and 
cheaper  sherries, — though  always  pure, — which  were  pur- 
chased by  the  house  for  the  supply  of  the  wider  London  mar- 
ket. No  effort  was  evei*  made  to  extend  that  market  by  low- 
ering quality  ; no  competition  was  possible  with  the  wines 
grown  by  Mr.  Domecq,  and  little  with  those  purchased  on  his 
judgment.  My  father  used  to  fret,  as  I have  told,  if  the 
orders  he  expected  were  not  forthcoming,  or  if  there  seemed 
the  slightest  risk  of  any  other  house  contesting  his  position 
at  the  head  of  the  list.  But  he  never  attempted,  or  even  per- 
mitted, the  enlargement  of  the  firm’s  operations  beyond  the 
scale  at  which  he  was  sure  that  his  partner’s  personal  and 
equal  care,  or,  at  least,  that  of  his  head  cellarman,  could  be 
given  to  the  execution  of  every  order. 

Mr.  Domecq’s  own  habits  of  life  were  luxurious,  but  never 
extravagant.  He  had  a house  in  Paris,  chiefly  for  the  sake  of 


332 


PR^TEBITA. 


his  daughters’  education  and  establishment ; the  profits  of  the 
estate,  though  not  to  be  named  in  any  comparison  with  those 
of  modern  mercantile  dynasty,  were  enough  to  secure  annual 
income  to  each  of  his  five  girls  large  enough  to  secure  their 
marriages  in  the  best  French  circles  : they  became,  each  in 
her  turn,  baronne  or  comtesse  ; their  father  choosing  their 
baron  or  count  for  them  with  as  much  discretion  as  he  had 
shown  in  the  choice  of  his  own  partner  ; and  all  the  marriages 
turned  out  well.  Elise,  Comtesse  des  Roys,  and  Caroline, 
Princess  Bethune,  once  or  twice  came  with  their  husbands  to 
stay  with  us  ; partly  to  see  London,  partly  to  discuss  with  my 
father  his  management  of  the  English  market : and  the  way 
in  which  these  lords,  virtually,  of  lands  both  in  France  and 
Spain,  though  men  of  sense  and  honor  ; and  their  wives, 
though  women  of  gentle  and  amiable  disposition,  (Elise,  in- 
deed, one  of  the  kindest  I ever  have  known,)  spoke  of  their 
Spanish  laborers  and  French  tenantry,  with  no  idea  whatever 
respecting  them  but  that,  except  as  producers  by  their  labor 
of  money  to  be  spent  in  Paris,  they  Avere  cumberers  of  the 
ground,  gave  me  the  first  clew  to  the  real  sources  of  wrong  in 
the  social  laws  of  modern  Europe  ; and  led  me  necessarily 
into  the  political  work  which  has  been  the  most  earnest  of  my 
life.  But  these  visits  and  warnings  were  not  till  seven  or 
eight  years  after  the  time  at  present  rendered  account  of,  in 
which,  nevertheless,  it  was  already  beginning  to  be,  if  not  a 
question,  at  least  a marvel  with  me,  that  these  graceful  and 
gay  Andalusians,  who  played  guitars,  danced  boleros,  and 
fought  bulls,  should  virtually  get  no  good  of  their  own  beau- 
tiful countiy  but  the  bunch  of  grapes  or  stalk  of  garlic  they 
frugally  dined  on  ; that  its  precious  wine  was  not  for  them, 
slill  less  the  money  it  was  sold  for ; but  the  one  came  to 
crown  our  Vandalic  feasts,  and  the  other  furnished  our  Dan- 
ish walls  with  pictures,  our.  Danish  gardens  with  milk  and 
honey,  and  five  noble  houses  in  Paris  with  the  means  of  beau- 
tiful dominance  in  its  Elysian  fields. 

Still  more  seriously,  I was  now  beginning  to  contrast  the 
luxury  and  continual  opportunity  of  my  own  exulting  days, 
with  the  poverty,  and  captivity,  or,  as  it  seemed  to  chance 


THE  FEASTS  OF  THE  VANDALS. 


Qoo 


always,  fatal  issue  of  any  efforts  to  escape  from  these,  in 
which  my  cousins,  the  only  creatures  whom  I had  to  care  for, 
beyond  my  home,  were  each  and  all  spending,  or  ending, 
their  laborious  youth. 

I must  briefly  resume  their  histories,  though  much  apart 
from  mine  ; but  if  my  heart  was  cold  to  them,  my  mind  was 
often  sad  for  them. 

By  grotesque  freak  of  Fors,  both  my  aunts  married  a Mr. 
Richardson — and  each  left  six  children,  four  boys  and  two 
girls. 

The  Perth  children  were  Mary  and  Jessie,  James,  John, 
William,  and  Andrew  ; the  Croydon  children,  Margaret  and 
Bridget,  John,  William,  George,  and  Charles.  None  left  now 
but  William  of  Croydon. 

The  Perth  boys  were  all  partly  weak  in  constitution,  and 
curiously  inconsistent  in  element  of  character,  having  much 
of  their  mother’s  subtlety  and  sweetness  mixed  with  a rather 
larger  measure  of  their  father’s  tannin.  The  eldest,  James, 
was  unlike  the  other  three, — more  delicate  in  feature,  and 
more  tractable  in  temper.  My  father  brought  him  up  to 
London  when  he  was  one-  or  two-and-twenty,  and  put  him 
into  the  counting-house  to  see  what  could  be  made  of  him  : 
but,  though  perfectly  well-behaved,  he  was  undiligent  and 
effectless — chiefly  solicitous  about  his  trousers  and  gloves. 
I remember  him  in  his  little  room,  the  smaller  of  the  two 
looking  west  at  top  of  Herne  Hill  house,  a pleasant,  gentle, 
tall  figure  of  a youth.  He  fell  into  rapid  decline  and  died. 

Nor  long  after  him,  the  youngest  brother,  Andrew,  who 
with  fewer  palpable  follies,  had  less  real  faculty  than  the  rest. 
He  learnt  farming  under  a good  master  in  Scotland,  and 
went  out  to  Australia  to  prove  his  science  ; but  after  a sliort 
struggle  with  the  earth  of  the  other  side  of  the  world,  rested 
beneath  it. 

The  second  brother,  John,  thus  left  the  head  of  the  family, 
was  a stumpily  made,  snub-  or  rather  knob-nosed,  red-faced, 
bright-eyed,  good-natured  simpleton  ; with  the  most  curi- 
ously subtle  shrewdnesses,  and  obstinate  faculties,  excrescent 
through  his  simplicity.  I believe  he  first  tried  to  carry  on 


334 


PEJETERITA. 


his  father’s  business ; not  prospering  in  that,  after  some 
pause  and  little-pleased  scrutiny  of  him,  he  was  established 
by  my  father  as  a wine-agent  in  Glasgow,  in  which  busi- 
ness and  town  he  remained,  in  a shambling,  hand-to-mouth 
manner,  some  thirty  years,  a torment  to  my  father,  of  an 
extremely  vexatious  kind — all  the  more  that  he  was  some- 
thing of  a possession  and  vestige  of  his  mother  all  the  same. 
He  was  a quite  first-rate  chess-player  and  whist-pla^^er : in 
business,  he  had  a sort  of  chess  and  whist  instinct  for  getting 
the  better  of  people,  as  if  every  dozen  of  sherry  were  a hand 
of  cards  ; and  would  often,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  playing 
a trick,  lose  a customer  without  really  making  a penny  by 
him.  Good-natured,  as  I said,  with  a rude  foundation  of 
honesty  at  the  bottom  which  made  my  father  put  up  with 
him,  (indeed,  so  far  as  I can  find  out,  no  one  of  all  my  rela- 
tions was  ever  dishonest  at  heart,  and  most  of  them  have 
been  only  too  simple,)  he  never  lied  about  his  sherry  or 
adulterated  it,  but  tried  to  get  little  advantages  in  bargains, 
and  make  the  customer  himself  to  choose  the  worst  , wine  at 
the  money,  and  so  on — trying  always  to  get  the  most  he  could 
out  of  my  father  in  the  same  way,  yet  affectionate  in  a dumb- 
doggish  sort,  and  not  ungrateful,  he  went  scamble-shambling 
on,  a plague  to  the  end,  yet  through  all,  a nephew. 

William,  the  tliivd  of  the  Perth  boys,  had  all  John’s  faults 
of  disposition,  but  greater  powers,  and,  above  all,  •I'esolution 
and  perseverance,  with  a rightly  foresigh  ted  pride,  not  satis- 
fied in  trivial  or  momentary  successes,  but  knitting  itself  into 
steady  ambition,  with  some  deep-set  notions  of  duty  and 
principles  of  conscience  farther  strengthening  it.  His  char- 
acter, however,  developed  slov/ly,  nor  ever  freed  itself  from 
the  flaws  which  ran  like  a geological  cleavage  through  the 
whole  brotherhood  : while  his  simplicities  in  youth  were  even 
more  manifest  than  theirs,  and  as  a schoolboy,  he  was 
certainly  the  awkwardest,  and  was  thought  the  foolishest,  of 
the  four. 

He  became,  however,  a laborious  and  sagacious  medical 
student,  came  up  to  London  to  walk  the  hospitals ; and  on 
passing  his  examination  for  medical  practitioner,  was  esta- 


CROSSMOUNT. 


335 


Wished  by  my  father  in  a small  shop  in  the  Bayswater  Hoad, 
when  he  began — without  purchase  of  an}"  former  favor,  but 
camped  there  like  a gipsy  by  the  roadside,— general  practice, 
chielly  among  the  poor,  and  not  enough  to  live  upon  for  a 
year  or  two  (without  supplemental  pork  and  apple-sauce  from 
Denmark  Hill),  but  conscientious  and  earnest,  pa}dng  largely 
in  gathered  knowledge  and  insight,  I shall  often  have  oc- 
casion to  speak  of  him  hereafter  ; it  is  enough  to  say  in  ad- 
vance that  after  a few  years  of  this  discipline  he  took  his 
diploma  of  M.D.  with  credit,  and  became  an  excellent  physi- 
cian— and  the  best  chess-player  I have  ever  known. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CROSSMOUNT. 

My  l3est  readers  cannot  but  be  alike  astonished  and  dis- 
appointed tliat  I have  nothing  set  down  of  the  (;onversation, 
cordial  always,  and  if  George  Richmond  were  there,  better 
than  brilliant,  which  liowed  at  these  above  described  Vandalic 
feasts.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  the  sap  and  bloom  of  it 
were  lost  in  deliberate  narrative,  and  its  power  sliorn  away  if 
one  could  not  record  also  the  expression  of  the  speaker  ; 
while  of  absolutely  useful  and  tenable  resulting  sense,  there 
was,  to  my  unsympathetic  mind,  little  to  be  got  hold  of. 
Turner  resolutely  refused  to  speak  on  the  subject  of  art  at 
all,  and  every  one  of  us  felt  that  we  must  ask  him  no  ques- 
tions in  that  direction  ; while  of  what  any  other  painter  said, 
I was  careless,  regarding  them  all  as  limited  to  their  own 
fields,  and  unable  to  help  me  in  mine. 

I had  two  distinct  instincts  to  be  satisfied,  rather  than  ends 
in  view,  as  I wrote  day  by  day  with  higher  kindled  feeling 
the  second  volume  of  “Modern  Painters.”  The  first,  to  ex- 
plain to  myself,  and  then  demonstrate  to  others,  the  nature 
of  that  quality  of  beauty  which  I now  saw  to  exist  through 
all  the  happy  conditions  of  living  organism  ; and  down  to  the 
minutest  detail  and  finished  material  structure  naturally  pro- 


PB^^TEIUTA. 


336 

cluced.  The  second,  to  explain  and  illustrate  the  power  of 
two  schools  of  art  unknown  to  the  British  public,  that  of  An- 
gelico in  Florence,  and  Tintoret  in  Venice. 

I have  no  knowledge,  and  can  form  no  conjecture,  of  the 
extent  to  which  the  book  in  either  direction  accomplished  its 
purpose.  It  is  usually  read  only  for  its  pretty  passages  ; its 
theory  of  beauty  is  scarcely  ever  noticed, — its  praise  of  Tin- 
toret has  never  obtained  the  purchase  of  any  good  example 
of  him  for  the  National  Gallery.  But  I permit  myself — per- 
haps with  vain  complacency — the  thought  thfit  I have  had 
considerable  share  in  the  movement  which  led  to  the  useful 
work  of  the  Arundel  Society  in  Italy,  and  to  the  enlargement 
of  the  National  collection  by  its  now  valuable  series  of  four- 
teenth-century religious  paintings. 

The  style  of  the  book  was  formed  on  a new  model,  given 
me  by  Osborne  Gordon.  I was  old  enough  now  to  feel  that 
neither  Johnsonian  balance  norByronic  alliteration  were  ulti- 
mate virtues  in  English  prose  ; and  I had  been  reading  with 
care,  on  Gordon’s  counsel,  both  for  its  arguments  and  its 
English,  Kichard  Hooker’s  “Ecclesiastical  Polity.”  I had 
always  a trick  of  imitating,  more  or  less,  the  last  book  I had 
read  with  admiration  ; and  it  farther  seemed  to  me  that  for 
the  purposes  of  argument,  (and  my  own  theme  was,  according 
to  my  notion,  to  be  argued  out  invincibly,)  Hooker’s  English 
was  the  perfectest  existing  model.  At  all  events,  I did  the 
best  I then  knew  how,  leaving  no  passage  till  I had  put  as 
much  thought  into  it  as  it  could  be  made  to  carry,  and  chosen 
the  words  with  the  utmost  precision  and  tune  I could  give 
them. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  when  I had  finished  the  last 
sentence,  I was  really  tired.  In  too  long  readings  at  Oxford 
I got  stupid  and  sleepy,  but  not  fatigued : now,  however,  I 
felt  distinctly  that  my  head  could  do  no  more  ; and  with 
much  satisfied  thankfulness,  after  the  revise  of  the  last  sheet 
was  sent  to  printer,  found  mj^self  on  the  bows  of  the  little 
steamer,  watching  their  magical  division  of  the  green  waves 
between  Dover  and  Calais. 

Little  steamers  they  all  were,  then  ; nor  in  the  least  well 


CR0S8M0UNT. 


337 


appointed,  nor  aspiring  to  any  pride  of  shape  or  press  of 
speed  ; their  bits  of  sails  worn  and  patched  like  those  of  an 
old  fishing-boat.  Here,  for  modest  specimen  of  my  then 
proper  art  style,  I give  my  careful  drawing  of  the  loose 
lashed  jib  of  one  of  them,  as  late  as  1854.^  The  immeasur- 
able delight  to  me  of  being  able  to  loiter  and  swing  about 
just  over  the  bowsprit  and  watch  the  plunge  of  the  bows,  if 
there  was  the  least  swell  or  broken  sea  to  lift  them,  with  the 
hope  of  Calais  at  breakfast,  and  the  horses’  heads  set  straight 
for  Mont  Blanc  to-morrow,  is  one  of  the  few  pleasures  I look 
back  to  as  quite  unmixed.  In  getting  a Turner  draAving  I al- 
ways wanted  another  ; but  I didn’t  want  to  be  in  more  boats 
than  one  at  once. 

As  I had  done  my  second  volume  greatly  to  my  father’s 
and  mother’s  delight,  (they  used  both  to  cry  a little,  at  least 
my  father  generally  did,  over  the  pretty  passages,  Avhen  I 
read  them  after  breakfast,)  it  had  been  agreed  that  they 
sliould  both  go  Avith  me  tliat  summer  to  see  ail  the  things 
and  pictures  spoken  of, — Ilaria,  and  the  Campo  Santo,  and 
St.  Mary’s  of  the  Thorn,  and  the  School  of  St.  Koch. 

Though  tired,  I Avas  in  excellent  health,  and  proud  hope  ; 
they  also  at  their  best  and  gladdest.  And  Ave  had  a happy 
Avalk  up  and  down  the  quiet  streets  of  Calais  that  day,  before 
four  o’clock  dinner. 

I have  dwelt  A\ith  insistence  in  last  chapter  on  my  pref- 
erence of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  at  Calais  to  the  Alcazar  of  Se- 
ville. Not  that  I was  without  love  of  grandeur  in  buildings, 
but  in  that  kind,  Rouen  front  and  Beauvais  apse  were  literally 
the  only  pieces  that  came  up  to  my  mark  ; ordinary  minsters 

* In  which  year  we  must  have  started  impatiently,  without  our  rubri- 
cal gooseberry  pie,  for  I find  the  drawing  is  dated  “ 10th  May,  niy 
father’s  birthday,”  and  thus  elucidated,  “ Opposite,”  (^. 6.  on  leaf  ot 
diary,)  “ tlie  jib  of  steamer  seen  from  inside  it  on  the  deck.  Tlie 
double  curve  at  the  base  of  it  is  curious  ; in  reality  the  curves  were  a 
good  deal  broken,  the  sail  being  warped  like  a piece  of  wetted  pajicr. 
The  rings  by  which  it  holds,  being  alternately  round  and  edge  to  the 
eye,  are  curious.  The  lines  are  of  course  seams,  which  go  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sail  ; the  brown  marks,  running  short  the  same  way,  are 
stains.” 


23 


338 


PR^TEBITA. 


and  palaces,  however  they  might  set  themselves  up  for  sub- 
lime, usually  hurt  me  by  some  manner  of  disproportion  or 
pretence  ; apd  my  best  joys  were  in  small  pieces  of  provincial 
building,  full  of  character,  and  naturally  graceful  and  right  in 
their  given  manner.  In  this  kind  the  little  wooden  belfry 
of  Evreux,  of  which  Front’s  drawing  is  photographed  at  page 
42  of  my  “Memoir,”*  is  consummate  ; but  the  Calais  one, 
though  of  far  later  and  commoner  style,  is  also  matchless,  far 
or  near,  in  that  rude  way,  and  has  been  a perpetual  delight 
and  lesson  to  me.  Front  has  a little  idealized  it  in  the  dis- 
tance of  the  drawing  of  Calais  Harbor,  page  40  in  the  same 
book  ; I never  tried  to  draw  it  myself,  the  good  of  it  being 
not  in  any  sculpturesque  detail,  but  in  the  complex  placing 
of  its  plain,  square-cut  props  and  ties,  taking  some  pretence 
of  pinnacle  on  them,  and  being  really  as  structurally  useful, 
though  by  their  linked  circletting  instead  of  their  weight. 
There  was  never  time  in  the  happy  afternoon  to  do  this  care- 
fully enough,  though  I got  a color-note  once  of  the  church- 
spire,  loved  in  a deeper  way,  (“  Modern  Fainters,”  Vol.  IV., 
Chap.  I.,)  but  the  belfry  beat  me.  After  all,  the  chief  charm 
of  it  was  in  being  seen  from  my  bedroom  at  Desseins,  and 
putting  me  to  sleep  and  waking  me  with  its  chimes. 

Calais  is  properly  a Flemish,  not  French  town  (of  course 
the  present  town  is  all,  except  belfry  and  church,  built  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  no  vestige  remaining  of  Flantagenet 
Calais) ; it  has  no  wooden  houses,  which  mark  the  essential 
French  civic  style,  but  only  brick  or  chalk  ones,  with,  origin- 
ally, most  of  them,  good  indented  Flemish  stone  gables  and 
tiled  roofs.  True  French  roofs  are  never  tiled,  but  slated, 
and  have  no  indented  gables,  but  bold  dormer  windows  ris- 
ing over  the  front,  never,  in  any  pretty  street  groups  of  them, 
without  very  definite  expression  of  pride.  Foor  little  Calais 
had  indeed  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  but  it  had  a quaint  look 
of  contentment  with  itself  on  those  easy  terms  ; some  dignity 
in  its  strong  ramparts  and  drawbridge  gates  ; and,  better 
than  dignity,  real  power  and  service  in  the  half-mile  of 


* Printed  by  the  Fine  Art  Society,  1880. 


GR0S8M0UNT. 


339 


pier,  reaching*  to  the  low-tide  breakers  across  its  field  of 
sand. 

Sunset,  then,  seen  from  the  pier-head  across  those  whisper- 
ing fringes  ; belfry  chime  at  evening  and  morning  ; and  the 
new  life  of  that  year,  1846,  was  begun. 

After  our  usual  rest  at  Champagnole,  we  went  on  over  the 
Cenis  to  Turin,  Verona,  and  Venice  ; whereat  I began  show- 
ing my  father  all  ray  new  discoveries  in  architecture  and 
painting.  But  there  began  now  to  assert  itself  a difference 
between  us  I had  not  calculated  on.  For  the  first  time  I 
verily  perceived  that  my  father  was  older  than  I,  and  not  im- 
mediately nor  easily  to  be  put  out  of  his  way  of  thinking 
in  anything.  We  had  been  entirely  of  one  mind  about  the 
carved  porches  of  Abbeville,  and  living  pictures  of  Vandyck  ; 
but  when  my  father  now  found  himself  required  to  admire 
also  fiat  walls,  striped  like  the  striped  calico  of  an  American 
fiag,  and  oval-eyed  saints  like  the  figures  on  a Chinese  tea- 
cup, he  grew  restive.  Further,  all  the  fine  writing  and  polite 
eclat  of  “ Modern  Painters  ” had  never  reconciled  him  to  my 
total  resignation  of  the  art  of  poetry  ; and  beyond  this,  he  en- 
tirely, and  wdth  acute  sense  of  loss  to  himself,  doubted  and 
deplored  my  now  constant  habit  of  making  little  patches  and 
scratches  of  the  sections  and  fractions  of  things  in  a note- 
book which  used  to  live  in  mj^  waistcoat  pocket,  instead 
of  the  former  Proutesque  or  Kobertsian  outline  of  grand 
buildings  and  sublime  scenes.  And  I w*as  the  more  vi- 
ciously stubborn  in  taking  my  own  w^ay,  just  because  every- 
bod}'-  was  with  him  in  these  opinions  ; and  I was  more 
and  more  persuaded  every  day,  that  everybody  was  always 
wrong. 

Often  in  my  other  books, — and  now,  once  for  all,  and 
finally  here, — I have  to  pray  my  readers  to  note  that  this  con- 
tinually increasing  arrogance  was  not  founded  on  vanity  in 
me,  but  on  sorrow.  There  is  a vast  difference — there  is  all 
the  difference — between  the  vanity  of  displaying  one’s  own 
faculties,  and  the  grief  that  other  people  do  not  use  their 
own.  Vanity  would  have  led  me  to  continue  writing  and  draw- 
ing what  every  one  praised  ; and  disciplining  my  own  already 


340 


PR^TEBITA. 


practised  hand  into  finer  dexterities.  But  I had  no  thought 
but  of  learning  more,  and  teaching  what  truth  I knew, — as- 
suredly then,  and  ever  since,  for  the  student’s  sake,  not  my 
own  fame’s  ; however  sensitive  I may  be  to  the  fame,  also, 
afterward. 

Meantime,  my  father  and  I did  not  get  on  well  in  Italy  at 
all,  and  one  of  the  worst,  wasp-barbed,  most  tingling  pangs 
of  my  memory  is  yet  of  a sunny  afternoon  at  Pisa,  when,  just 
as  we  were  driving  past  my  pet  La  Spina  chapel,  my  father, 
waking  out  of  a reverie,  asked  me  suddenly,  “John,  what  shall 
I give  the  coachman  ? ” Whereupon,  I,  instead  of  telling  him 
what  he  asked  me,  as  I ought  to  have  done  with  much  com- 
placency at  being  referred  to  on  the  matter,  took  upon  me 
with  impatience  to  reprove,  and  lament  over,  my  father’s 
hardness  of  heart,  in  thinking  at  that  moment  of  sublunary 
affairs.  And  the  spectral  Spina  of  the  chapel  has  stayed  in 
my  own  heart  ever  since. 

Nor  did  things  come  right  that  year  till  we  got  to  Chamouni, 
where,  having  seen  enough  by  this  time  of  the  upper  snow,  I 
was  content  to  enjoy  my  morning  walks  in  the  valley  with  papa 
and  mamma ; after  w^hich,  I had  more  than  enough  to  do 
among  the  lower  rocks  and  w’oods  till  dinner-time,  and  in 
w^atching  phases  of  sunset  afterward  from  beneath  the  slopes 
of  the  Breven. 

The  last  Chamouni  entry,  with  its  sequel,  is  perhaps  worth 
keeping. 

“Aug.  23d. — Kained  nearly  all  day;  but  I w^alked  to  the 
source  of  the  Arveron — now  a mighty  fall  down  the  rocks  of 
the  Mon  tan  vert ; * note  the  intense  scarlety  purple  of  the 
shattered  larch  stems,  wet,  opposed  with  yellow  from  decom- 
posing turpentine  ; the  elder  stems  looking  much  like  birch, 
covered  with  the  -white  branchy  moss  that  looks  like  a coral. 
Went  out  again  in  the  afternoon  toward  the  Cascade  des 
Peleims  ; surprised  to  see  the  real  rain-clouds  assume  on  the 
Breven,  about  one-third  of  its  height,  the  form  of  cirri, — long, 
continuous,  and  delicate  ; the  same  tendency  showing  in  the 


* The  rocks  over  which  the  Glacier  des  Bois  descends,  I meant. 


CB088M0UNT. 


341 


clouds  all  along  tlie  valley,  some  inclining  to  tlie  fisli-sliajDe, 
and  others  to  the  cobweb-like  wavy  film.” 

“ Lucerne,  Aug.  31st. — The  result  of  the  above  phenomena 
was  a little  lift  of  the  clouds  next  morning,  which  gave  me 
some  of  the  finest  passages  about  Mont  Blanc  I ever  beheld  ; 
and  then,  weather  continually  worse  till  now.  We  have  had 
two  days’  ceaseless  rain,  this,  the  third,  hardly  interrupted, 
and  the  lake  right  into  the  town.” 

“ There  was  great  joy  in  hel^^ing  my  mother  from  the  door 
of  the  Cygne  along  a quarter  of  a mile  of  extempore  plank 
bridge  in  the  streets,  and  in  writing  a rhymed  letter  in  de- 
scription of  the  lifted  lake  and  swirling  Eeuss,  to  little  Louise 
Ellis  (Mr.  Telford’s  niece,  at  this  time  one  of  the  happy  pres- 
ences in  Widmore),  of  which  a line  or  two  yet  remain  in  my 
ears,  about  a market  boat  moored  above  the  submerged 
quay 

“ Full  of  mealy  potatoes  and  marrowfat  pease, 

And  honey,  and  butter,  and  Simmentlial  cheese, 

And  a poor  little  calf,  not  at  all  at  its  ease, 

Tied  by  the  neck  to  a box  at  its  knees. 

Don’t  you  agree  with  me,  dear  Louise, 

It  was  unjustiliably  cruel  in 

Them  to  have  brought  it  in  all  that  squeeze 

Over  the  lake  from  Fluelen  ? ” 

And  so  home,  that  year  by  Troyes,  with  my  own  calf’s 
mind  also  little  at  its  ease,  under  confused  squeeze  of  Alps, 
clouds,  and  architecture  ; yet  finding  room  still  in  the  waist- 
coat pocket  for  notes  on  the  external  tracery  of  St.  Urbain, 
which  fixed  that  church  for  me  as  the  highest  type  of  Gothic 
construction,  and  took  me  off  all  Italian  models  for  the  next 
four  years.  The  abstraction,  however,  though  St.  Urbain  be- 
gan it,  was  not  altogether  that  Saint’s  fault. 

The  press  notices  of  my  second  volume  had  been  either 
cautious  or  complimentary, — none,  to  the  best  of  my  memory, 
contemptuous.  My  friends  took  much  pleasure  in  it,  and  the 
estimate  formed  of  it  in  the  old  Scott  and  John  Murray  circle 
was  shown  by  Lockhart’s  asking  me  that  winter  to  review 
Lord  Lindsay  in  the  Quarterly.  I was  shy  of  doing  this, 


342 


PRjETERITA, 


being  well  aware  that  Lord  Lindsay  knew  mucb  more  about 
Italian  painting  than  I did  ; but  I thought  no  one  else  likely 
to  do  it  better,  and  had  another  motive  to  the  business, — of 
an  irresistible  nature. 

The  little  high-foreheaded  Charlotte  had  by  this  time  be- 
come a Scottish  fairy,  White  Lady,  and  witch  of  the  fatallest 
sort,  looking  as  if  she  had  just  risen  out  of  the  . Stream  in 
Rhymer’s  Glen,  and  could  only  be  seen  by  favoring  glance  of 
moonlight  over  the  Eildons.  I used  to  see  her,  however, 
sometimes,  by  the  dim  lamplight  of  this  world,  at  Lady  Davy’s, 
— Sir  Humphry’s  widow, — whose  receptions  in  Park  Street 
gathered  usually,  with  others,  the  literary  and  scientific  men 
who  had  once  known  Abbotsford.  But  I never  could  con- 
trive to  come  to  any  serious  speech  with  her ; and  at  last, 
with  my  usual  wisdom  in  such  matters,  went  away  into 
Cumberland  to  recommend  myself  to  her  by  writing  a Quar- 
terly Review. 

I went  in  the  early  spring  to  the  Salutation  at  Ambleside, 
then  yet  a country  village,  and  its  inn  a country  inn.  But 
there,  whether  it  was  the  grilled  salmon  for  breakfast,  or  too 
prolonged  reflections  on  the  Celestial  Hierarchies,  I fell  into  a 
state  of  despondency  till  then  unknown  to  me,  and  of  which 
I knew  not  the  like  again  till  fourteen  years  afterward.  The 
whole  morning  was  painfully  spent  in  balancing  phrases ; and 
from  my  boat,  in  the  afternoons  on  Windermere,  it  appeared 
to  me  that  the  water  was  leaden,  and  the  hills  were  low. 
Lockhart,  on  the  first  reception  of  the  labored  MS.,  asked  me 
to  cut  out  all  my  best  bits,  (just  as  Keble  had  done  before 
with  my  prize  poem.)  In  both  cases  I submitted  patiently  to 
the  loss  of  my  feathers  ; but  was  seriously  angry  and  dis- 
gusted when  Lockhart  also  intimated  to  me  that  a sentence 
in  which  I had  with  perfect  justice  condemned  Mr.  Gaily 
Knight’s  representation  “out  of  his  own  head”  of  San  Michele 
at  Lucca,  could  not — Mr.  Gaily  Knight  being  a protege  of  Al- 
bemarle Street — appear  in  the  Quarterly.  This  first  clear 
insight  into  the  arts  of  bookselling  and  reviewing  made 
me  permanently  distrustful  of  both  trades  ; and  hearing  no 
word,  neither,  of  Charlotte’s  taking  the  smallest  interest  in  the 


CROSSMOUNT. 


343 


celestial  hierarchies,  I returned  to  town  in  a temper  and  state 
of  health  in  which  my  father  and  mother  thought  that  once 
more  the  best  place  for  me  would  be  Leamington. 

I thought  so  myself,  too  ; and  went  penitently  again  to 
Jephson,  wdio  at  once  stopped  the  grilled  salmon,  and  ordered 
salts  and  promenade,  as  before. 

It  chanced  that  at  this  time  there  was  staying  at  Leaming- 
ton, also  under  Jephson’s  care,  the  son  of  an  old  friend,  per- 
haps flame,  of  my  father’s,  Mrs.  Farquharson, — a youth  now 
of  some  two  or  three  and  twenty,  but  who  seemed  to  me 
older  than  myself,  being  already  a man  of  some  position  and 
influence  in  Perthshire.  A few  years  before  he  had  come  into 
possession,  under  trustees,  of  a large  Highland  estate,  on  the 
condition  that  he  should  change  his  name  for  that  of  Mac- 
donald, (properly  reduplicate, — Macdonald  Macdonald,)  con- 
siderable sums  being  reserved  in  the  trustees’  hands  by  the 
terms  of  the  will,  for  the  purchase  of  more  land.  At  that 
time  his  properties  were  St.  Martin’s  near  Perth,  where  his 
mother  lived  ; Rossie  Castle,  above  Montrose  ; another  castle, 
with  much  rock  and  moor  around  it,  name  forgotten,  just 
south  of  Schehallien  ; and  a shooting-lodge.  Crossmount,  at 
the  foot  of  Schehallien,  between  Lochs  Bannoch  and  Tummel. 
The  young  Macdonald  had  come  to  see  us  once  or  twice  with 
his  mother,  at  Denmark  Hill,  and,  partly  I suppose  at  his 
mother’s  instigation,  i^artly,  the  stars  knov/  how,  took  a true 
liking  to  me ; which  I could  not  but  answer  with  surprised 
thankfulness.  He  was  a thin,  dark  Highlander,  with  some 
expression  of  gloom  on  his  features  when  at  rest,  but  with 
quite  the  sweetest  smile  for  his  friends  that  I have  ever  seen, 
except  in  one  friend  of  later  years,  of  whom  in  his  place. 

He  was  zealous  in  the  Scottish  Evangelical  Faith,  and  wholly 
true  and  upright  in  ii,  so  far  as  any  man  can  be  true  in  any 
faith,  who  is  bound  by  the  laws,  modes,  and  landed  estates 
of  this  civilized  world. 

The  thoughtful  reader  must  have  noted  with  some  dis- 
pleasure that  I have  scarcely,  whether  at  college  or  at  home, 
used  the  word  “ friendship  ” with  respect  to  any  of  my  compan- 
ions. The  fact  is,  I am  a little  puzzled  by  the  specialty  and 


Pll^ETERITA. 


34J: 

singularity  of  poetical  and  classic  friendship.  I get,  dis« 
tinctively,  attached  to  places,  to  pictures,  to  dogs,  cats,  and 
girls  : but  I have  had,  Heaven  be  thanked,  many  and  true 
friends,  young  and  old,  who  have  been  of  boundless  help  and 
good  to  me, — nor  I quite  helpless  to  them  ; yet  for  none  of 
whom  have  I ever  obeyed  George  Herbert’s  mandate,  “ Tby 
friend  put  in  thy  bosom  ; wear  his  eyes,  still  in  thy  heart, 
that  he  may  see  what’s  there ; if  cause  require,  thou  art  his 
sacrifice,”  etc.  Without  thinking  myself  particularly  wicked, 
I found  nothing  in  my  heart  that  seemed  to  me  worth  any- 
body’s seeing  ; nor  had  I any  curiosity  for  insight  into  those 
of  others  ; nor  had  I any  notion  of  being  a sacrifice  for  them, 
or  the  least  wish  that  they  should  exercise  for  my  good  any 
but  their  most  pleasurable  accomplishments, — Dawtrey  Hrew- 
itt,  for  instance,  being  further  endeared  because  he  could 
stand  on  his  head  and  catch  vipers  by  the  tail ; Gershom 
Collingwood  because  he  could  sing  French  songs  about  the 
Earthly  Paradise  ; and  Alic  Wedderburn  because  he  could 
swim  into  tarns  and  fetch  out  water-lilies  for  me,  like  a water- 
spaniel.  And  I never  expected  that  they  should  care  much 
for  me,  but  only  that  they  should  read  my  books ; and  look- 
ing back,  I believe  they  liked  and  like  me,  nearly  as  well  as  if 
I hadn’t  written  any. 

First,  then,  of  this  Love’s  Meinie  of  my  own  age,  or  under 
it,  William  Macdonald  took  to  me  ; and  got  me  to  promise, 
that  autumn,  to  come  to  him  at  Crossmount,  where  it  was 
his  evangelical  duty  to  do  some  shooting  in  due  season. 

I went  into  Scotland  by  Dunbar  ; saw  again  Loch  Leven, 
Glen  Farg,  Kose  Terrace,  and  the  Inch  of  Perth  ; and  went 
on,  pensive  enough,  by  Killiecrankie,  to  the  clump  of  pines 
which  sheltered  my  friend’s  lodge  from  the  four  winds  of  the 
wilderness. 

After  once  walking  up  Schehallien  with  him  and  his 
keepers,  with  such  entertainment  as  I could  find  in  the  mew- 
ing and  shrieking  of  some  seventy  or  eighty  gray  hares,  who 
were  brought  down  in  bags  and  given  to  the  poorer  ten- 
antry ; and  forming  final  opinion  that  the  poorer  tenantry 
might  better  have  been  permitted  to  find  the  stock  of  their 


GROSmOUNT. 


345 


hare-soup  for  themselves,  I forswore  further  fashionable 
amusement,  and  set  myself,  when  the  days  were  fine,  to  the 
laborious  eradication  of  a crop  of  thistles,  which  had  been 
too  successfully  grown  by  northern  agriculture  in  one  of  the 
best  bits  of  unboggy  ground  by  the  Tummel. 

I have  carelessly  omitted  noticing  till  now,  that  the  ambi- 
tions in  practical  gardening,  of  which  the  germs,  as  aforesaid, 
had  been  blighted  at  Herne  Hill,  nevertheless  still  prevailed 
over  the  contemplative  philosophy  in  me  so  far  as  to  rekindle 
the  original  instinct  of  liking  to  dig  a hole,  whenever  I got 
leave.  Sometimes,  in  the  kitchen-garden  of  Denmark  Hill, 
the  hole  became  a useful  furrow  ; but  when  once  the  pota- 
toes and  beans  were  set,  I got  no  outlet  nor  inlet  for  my  ex- 
cavatory  fanc}^  or  skill  during  the  rest  of  the  year.  The  this- 
tle-field at  Crossmount  was  an  inheritance  of  amethystine 
treasure  to  me  ; and  the  working  hours  in  it  are  among  the 
few  in  my  life  which  I remember  with  entire  serenity — as 
being  certain  I could  have  spent  them  no  better.  For  I had 
wise — though  I say  it — thoughts  in  them,  too  many  to  set 
down  here  (they  are  scattered  afterward  up  and  down  in 
“ Fors  ” and  “ Munera  Pulveris  ”),  and  wholesome  sleep  after 
them,  in  spite  of  the  owls,  who  were  many,  in  the  clumps  of 
pine  by  Tummel  shore. 

Mostly  a quiet  stream  there,  tlirongh  the  bogs,  with  only 
a bit  of  step  or  tumble  a foot  or  two  high  on  occasion  ; above 
which  I was  able  practically  to  ascertain  for  myself  the  exact 
power  of  level  water  in  a current  at  the  top  of  a fall.  I need 
not  say  that  on  the  Cumberland  and  Swiss  lakes,  and  within 
and  without  the  Lido,  I had  learned  by  this  time  how  to 
manage  a boat — an  extremely  different  thing,  be  it  observed, 
from  steering  one  in  a race  ; and  the  little  two-foot  steps  of 
Tummel  were,  for  scientific  purposes,  as  good  as  falls  twenty 
or  two  hundred  feet  high.  I found  that  I could  put  the 
stern  of  my  boat  full  six  inches  into  the  air  over  the  top  of 
one  of  these  little  falls,  and  hold  it  there,  with  very  short 
sculls,  against  the  level  * stream,  with  perfect  ease  for  any 


Distinguish  carefully  between  this  and  a sloping  rapid. 


346 


PB^TEBITA. 


time  I liked  ; and  any  child  of  ten  years  old  may  do  the 
same.  The  nonsense  written  about  the  terror  of  feeling 
streams  quicken  as  they  approach  a mill  weir  is  in  a high  de- 
gree dangerous,  in  making  giddy  water  parties  lose  their 
presence  of  mind  if  any  such  chance  take  them  unawares. 
And  (to  get  this  needful  bit  of  brag,  and  others  connected 
with  it,  out  of  the  way  at  once),  I have  to  say  that  half  my 
power  of  ascertaining  facts  of  any  kind  connected  with  the 
arts,  is  in  my  stern  habit  of  doing  the  thing  with  my  own 
hands  till  I know  its  difficulty  ; and  though  I have  no  time  nor 
wish  to  acquire  showy  skill  in  anything,  I make  myself  clear 
as  to  what  the  skill  means,  and  is.  Thus,  when  I had  to  di- 
rect road-making  at  Oxford,  I sate,  myself,  with  an  iron- 
masked  stone-breaker,  on  his  heap,  to  break  stones  beside 
the  London  road,  just  under  Iffley  Hill,  till  I knew  how  to 
advise  my  too  impetuous  pupils  to  effect  their  purposes  in 
that  matter,  instead  of  breaking  the  heads  of  their  hammers 
otf,  (a  serious  item  in  our  daily  expenses.)  I learned  from  an 
Irish  street  crossing-sweeper  what  he  could  teach  me  of 
sweeping ; but  found  myself  in  that  matter  nearly  his  match, 
from  my  boy-gardening  ; and  again  and  again  I swept  bits 
of  St.  Giles’  foot-pavements,  showing  my  corps  of  subor- 
dinates how  to  finish  into  depths  of  gutter.  I worked  with  a 
carpenter  until  I could  take  an  even  shaving  six  feet  long  off 
a board  ; and  painted  enough  with  properly  and  delightfully 
soppy  green  paint  to  feel  the  master’s  superiority  in  the  use 
of  a blunt  brush.  But  among  all  these  and  other  such  stu- 
dentships, the  reader  will  be  surprised,  I think,  to  hear  seri- 
ously, that  the  instrument  I finally  decided  to  be  the  most 
difficult  to  manage  was  the  tro\vel.  For  accumulated  months 
of  my  boy’s  life  I watched  bricklaying  and  paving ; * but 
when  I took  the  trowel  into  my  own  hand,  abandoned  at  once 

* Of  our  pavior  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Duprez  {we  always  spelt  and 
pronounced  Depree),  of  Langley,  near  Slough,  and  Gray’s  Inn  (pro- 
nounced Grazen)  Lane,  in  London  (see  the  seventh  number  of  Di- 
lecta).  The  laying  of  the  proper  quantity  of  sand  under  the  pave- 
ment stones  being  a piece  of  trowel-handling  as  subtle  as  spreading 
the  mortar  under  a brick. 


GROSSMOUNT. 


347 


all  hope  of  attaining  the  least  real  skill  with  it,  unless  I gave 
up  all  thoughts  of  any  future  literary  or  political  career. 
But  the  quite  happiest  bit  of  manual  work  I ever  did  was  for 
my  mother  in  the  old  inn  at  Sixt,  where  she  alleged  the  stone 
staircase  to  have  become  unpleasantly  dirty,  since  last  year. 
Nobody  in  the  inn  appearing  to  think  it  possible  to  wash  it, 
I brought  the  necessary  buckets  of  v/ater  from  the  yard 
myself,  poured  them  into  beautiful  image  of  Versailles  water- 
works down  the  fifteen  or  twenty  steps  of  the  great  staircase, 
and  with  the  strongest  broom  I could  find,  cleaned  every  step 
into  its  corners.  It  was  quite  lovely  work  to  dash  the  water 
and  drive  the  mud,  from  each,  with  accumulating  splash 
down  to  the  next  one. 

I must  return  for  a moment  to  the  clumps  of  pine  at 
Crossmount,  and  their  company  of  owls,  because — whatever 
wise  people  may  say  of  them — I at  least  myself  have  found 
the  owl’s  cry  always  prophetic  of  mischief  to  me  ; and  though 
I got  wiser,  as  aforesaid,  in  my  field  of  thistles,  yet  the  Scot- 
tish Athena  put  on  against  me  at  that  time  her  closed  visor 
(not  that  Greek  helmets  ever  have  a visor,  but  when  Athena 
hides  her  face,  she  throws  her  casque  forward  and  down,  and 
only  looks  through  the  oval  apertures  of  it).  Her  adversity 
to  me  at  this  time  was  shown  by  my  loss  of  Miss  Lockhart, 
whom  I saw  for  the  last  time  at  one  of  Lady  Davy’s  dinners, 
where  Mr.  Hoj^e-Scott  took  the  foot  of  the  table.  Lady  Davy 
had  given  me  Miss  Lockhart  to  take  down,  but  I found  she 
didn’t  care  for  a word  I said  ; and  Mr.  Gladstone  was  on  the 
other  side  of  her — and  the  precious  moments  were  all  thrown 
away  in  quarrelling  across  her,  with  him,  about  Neapolitan 
prisons.  He  couldn’t  see,  as  I did,  that  the  real  prisoners 
were  the  people  outside. 

Meantime,  restraining  the  ideals  and  assuaging  the  disap- 
pointments of  my  outer  world  life,  the  home-work  went  on 
with  entirely  useful  steadiness.  The  admiration  of  tree- 
branches  taught  me  at  Fontainebleau,  led  me  now  into  care- 
ful discernment  of  their  species  ; and  while  my  father,  as 
was  his  custom,  read  to  my  mother  and  me  for  half-an-hour 
after  breakfast,  I always  had  a fresh-gathered  outer  spray  of  a 


34S 


PB^TEBITA. 


tree  before  me,  of  which  the  mode  of  growth,  with  a single 
leaf  full  size,  had  to  be  done  at  that  sitting  in  fine  pen  out- 
line, filled  with  the  simple  color  of  the  leaf  at  one  wash.  On 
fine  days,  when  the  grass  was  dry,  I used  to  lie  down  on  it 
and  draw  the  blades  as  they  grew,  with  the  ground  herbage 
of  buttercup  or  hawkweed  mixed  among  them,  until  every 
square  foot  of  meadow,  or  mossy  bank,  became  an  infinite 
picture  and  possession  to  me,  and  the  grace  and  adjustment 
to  each  other  of  growing  leaves,  a subject  of  more  curious 
interest  to  me  than  the  composition  of  any  painter’s  master- 
piece. The  love  of  complexity  and  quantity  before  noticed 
as  influencing  my  preference  of  flamboyant  to  pure  architect- 
ure, was  here  satisfied,  without  qualifying  sense  of  wasted 
labor,  by  what  I felt  to  be  the  constant  working  of  Omnipo- 
tent kindness  in  the  fabric  of  the  food-giving  tissues  of  the 
earth  ; nor  less,  morning  after  morning,  did  I rejoice  in  the 
traceries  and  the  painted  glass  of  the  sky  at  sunrise. 

This  physical  study  had,  I find,  since  1842,  when  it  began, 
advanced  in  skill  until  now  in  1847,  at  Leamington,  it  had 
proceeded  into  botanical  detail ; and  the  collection  of  material 
for  “ Proserpina  ” began  then,  singularly,  with  the  analysis  of 
a thistle-top,  as  the  foundation  of  all  my  political  economy 
was  dug  down  to,  through  the  thistle-field  of  Crossmount. 

“Analysis”  of  thistle-top,  I say;  not  “dissection,”  nor 
microscopic  poring  into. 

Flowers,  like  everything  else  that  is  lovely  in  the  visible 
world,  are  only  to  be  seen  rightly  with  the  eyes  which  the  God 
who  made  them  gave  us  ; and  neither  with  microscopes  nor 
spectacles.  These  have  their  uses  for  the  curious  and  the  aged  ; 
as  stilts  and  crutches  have  for  people  who  want  to  walk  in  mud, 
or  cannot  safely  walk  but  on  three  legs  anywhere.  But  in 
health  of  mind  and  body,  men  should  see  with  their  own  eyes, 
hear  and  speak  without  trumpets,  walk  on  their  feet,  not  on 
wheels,  and  work  and  war  with  their  arms,  not  with  engine- 
beams,  nor  rifles  warranted  to  kill  twenty  men  at  a shot  before 
you  can  see  them.  The  use  of  the  great  mechanical  powers 
may  indeed  sometimes  be  compatible  with  the  due  exercise  of 
our  own ; but  the  use  of  instruments  for  exaggerating  the 


CROSSMOUNT. 


340 


powers  of  sight  necessarily  deprives  us  of  the  best  pleasures 
of  sight.  A flower  is  to  be  watched  as  it  grows,  in  its  associa- 
tion with  the  earth,  the  air,  and  the  dew  ; its  leaves  are  to  be 
seen  as  they  expand  in  sunshine  ; its  colors,  as  they  embroider 
the  field,  or  illumine  the  forest.  Dissect  or  magnify  them,  and 
all  you  discover  or  learn  at  last  will  be  that  oaks,  roses,  and 
daisies,  are  all  made  of  fibres  and  bubbles  ; and  these,  again, 
of  charcoal  and  water  ; but,  for  all  their  peeping  and  probing, 
nobody  knows  how. 

And  far  more  difficult  Avork  than  this  was  on  foot  in  other 
directions.  Too  sorroAvfully  it  had  now  become  plain  to  me 
that  neither  George  Herbert,  nor  Richard  Hooker,  nor  Henr^ 
Melvill,  nor  Thomas  Dale,  nor  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church,  nor 
the  Bishop  of  Oxford,  could  in  anywise  explain  to  me  whai 
Turner  me<ant  by  the  contest  of  Apollo  with  the  Python,  or  by 
the  repose  of  the  great  dragon  above  the  Garden  of  the 
Hesperides. 

For  such  nearer  Python  as  might  wreathe  itself  against  my 
own  now'  gathering  strength, — for  such  serjAent  of  Eternity  as 
might  reveal  its  awe  to  me  amidst  the  sands  even  of  Forest 
Hill  or  Addington  Heath,  I Avas  yet  Avholly  unprepared. 

All  that  I had  been  taught  had  to  be  questioned  ; all  that  I 
had  trusted,  proved.  I cannot  enter  yet  into  any  account  of 
this  trial ; but  the  following  fragment  of  1847  diary  Avill  in- 
form the  reader  enough  of  the  courses  of  thought  Avhich  I AA^as 
being  led  into  beside  the  lilies  of  Aa^ou,  and  under  the  mounds, 
that  Avere  once  the  Avails,  of  Kenilworth. 

“It  Avas  cold  and  dark  and  gusty  and  raining  by  fits,  at  tAA'O 
o’clock  to-day,  and  until  four  ; but  I Avent  out,  determined  to 
have  my  Avalk,  get  Avet  or  no. 

“I  took  the  road  to  the  village  Avhere  I had  been  the  first 
day  Avith  Macdonald,  and  about  a mile  and  a half  out,  I Avas 
driven  by  the  rain  into  a little  cottage,  remarkable  outside  for 
tAvo  of  the  most  noble  groups  of  hollyhocks  I e\'er  saAv — one 
rose-color  passing  into  purple,  and  the  other  rich  purple  and 
opposed  by  a beautiful  sulphur  jmllow  one.  It  was  about  a 
quarter  to  five,  and  they  (the  Avoman  and  her  mother)  Avere 
taking  their  tea  (pretty  strong,  and  without  milk)  and  AAhite 


350 


PBJETEUITA. 


bread.  Bound  the  room  were  hung  several  prints  of  the 
Crucifixion,  and  some  Old  Testament  subjects,  and  two  bits  of 
tolerable  miniature  ; one  in  what  I thought  at  first  was  an  uni- 
form, but  it  was  the  footman’s  dress  of  the  woman’s  second 
son,  who  is  with  a master  in  Leamington  ; the  other  a portrait 
of  a more  distingue  looking  personage,  who,  I found  on  in= 
quiry,  was  the  eldest  son,  cook  in  the  Bush  inn  at  Carlisle. 
Inquiring  about  the  clergyman  of  the  village,  the  woman — 
whose  name,  I found,  was  Sabina — said  they  had  lost  their 
best  earthly  friend,  the  late  clergyman,  a Mr.  Waller,  I think, 
who  had  been  with  them  upward  of  eleven  years,  and  had’got 
them  into  that  cottage  ; her  husband  having  been  in  his  ser- 
vice, and  he  fretted  himself,  she  said,  too  much,  about  getting 
them  into  it,  and  never  lived  to  see  them  in  it  after  all,  dying 
of  decline  in  London.  She  spoke  of  him  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  I looked  at  the  books  lying  on  the  table,  well  used  all 
of  them,  and  found  three  Bibles,  three  Prayer  Books,  a treatise 
on  practical  Christianity,  another  on  seriousness  in  religion, 
and  Baxter’s  “ Saint’s  Best. ” I asked  her  if  they  read  no  books 
but  religious  ones.  “ No,  sir  ; I should  be  very  sorry  if  there 
were  any  others  in  my  house,”  said  she.  As  I took  up  the 
largest  Bible,  she  said  “ it  was  a nice  print,  but  sadly  tattered  ; 
she  wished  she  could  get  it  bound.”  This  I promised  to  get 
clone  for  her,  and  left  her  much  pleased. 

“ It  had  rained  hard  while  I stayed  in  the  cottage,  but  had 
ceased  when  I \vent  on,  and  presently  appeared  such  a bright 
bar  of  streaky  sky  in  the  west,  seen  over  the  glittering  hedges, 
as  made  my  heart  leap  again,  it  put  so  much  of  old  feel- 
ings into  me  of  far-away  hills  and  fountains  of  morning  light  ; 
and  the  sun  came  out  presently,  and  every  shake  of  the  trees 
shook  down  more  light  upon  the  grass.  And  so  I came  to 
the  village  and  stood  leaning  on  the  churchyard  gate,  looking 
at  the  sheep  nibbling  and  resting  among  the  graves  (newdy 
watered  they  lay,  and  fresh,  like  a field  of  precious  seed). 
One  narrow  stream  of  light  ran  in  ups  and  downs  across  them, 
but  the  shadow  of  the  church  fell  over  most — the  pretty  little 
gray  church,  now  one  dark  mass  against  the  intense  golden 
glittering  sky ; and  to  make  it  sweeter  still,  the  churchyard 


V HOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC, 


351 


itself  rose  steeply,  so  that  its  own  grand  line  came  against  this 
same  light  at  last.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

l’hOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANa 

The  little  inn  at  Samoens,  where  I washed  the  stairs  down 
for  my  mother,  was  just  behind  the  group  of  houses  of  which 
I gave  a carefully  colored  sketch  to  Mrs.  John  Simon,  who,  in 
my  mother’s  old  age,  was  her  most  deeply  trusted  friend. 
She,  with  her  husband,  love  Savoy  even  more  than  I ; were 
kinder  to  Joseph  Couttet  to  the  last,  and  are  so  still  to  his 
daughter  Judith. 

The  Samoens  inn  was,  however,  a too  unfavorable  type  of 
tlje  things  which — in  my  good  old  times — one  had  sometimes 
to  put  up  with,  and  rather  liked  having  to  put  up  with,  in 
Savo}'.  The  central  example  of  the  sort  of  house  one  went 
there  to  live  in,  was  the  Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc  at  St.  Martin’s ; 
to  me,  certainly,  of  all  my  inn  homes,  the  most  eventful,  pa- 
thetic, and  sacred.  How  to  begin  speaking  of  it,  I do  not 
know  ; still  less  how  to  end  ; but  here  are  three  entries,  con- 
secutive, in  my  diary  of  1849,  which  may  lead  me  a little  on 
my  way. 

“ St.  Martin’s,  evening,  July  11th.  What  a strange  con- 
trast there  is  between  these  lower  valleys,  with  their  over- 
wrought richness  mixed  with  signs  of  waste  and  disease, 
their  wild  noon-winds  shaking  their  leaves  into  palsy,  and  the 
dark  storms  folding  themselves  about  their  steep  mural  preci- 
pices,— between  these  and  the  pastoral  green,  pure  aiguilles, 
and  fleec}^  rain-clouds  of  Chamouni  ; yet  nothing  could  be 
more  divine  than  (to-day)  the  great  valley  of  level  cornfield  ; 
half,  smooth  close  to  the  ground,  }^et  yellow  and  warm  witli 
stubble  ; half,  laden  with  sheaves  ; the  vines  in  mass}'  green 
above,  with  Indian  corn,  and  the  rich  brown  and  white  cot- 
tages (in  midst  of  them). 

“July  13th.  I w.alked  with  my  father  last  night  up  to  the 
vine-covered  cottages  under  the  Aiguille  de  Varens. 


352 


PRMTERITA. 


“July  15thj  Samoens.  We  had  a stony  road  to  traverse  in 
chars  from  St.  Martin’s  yesterday,  and  a hot  walk  this  morn- 
ing over  the  ground  between  this  (Samoens)  and  Sixt.  As  I 
passed  through  the  cornfields,  I found  they  gave  me  a pleas- 
ant feeling  by  reminding  me  of  Leamington.” 

“ We  ” in  this  entry  means  only  my  father  and  mother  and 
I ; poor  Mary  was  with  us  no  more.  She  had  got  married,  as 
girls  always  will, — the  foolish  creatures  ! — however  happy 
they  might  be  at  home,  or  abroad,  with  their  own  people. 

Mary  heartily  loved  her  aunt  and  uncle,  by  this  time,  and 
was  sorry  to  leave  them : yet  she  must  needs  marry  *her 
brother-in-law,  a good,  quiet  London  solicitor,  and  was  now 
deep  in  household  cares  in  a dull  street,  Pimlico  wa}%  when 
she  might  have  been  gayly  helping  me  to  sweep  the  stairs 
at  Samoens,  and  gather  bluets*  in  those  Leamington-like 
cornfields. 

The  sentence  about  “ noon-wind  ” refers  to  a character  of 
the  great  valleys  on  the  north  of  the  main  Alpine  chain, 
which  curiously  separates  them  from  those  of  the  Italian  side. 
These  great  northern  valleys  are,  in  the  main  four, — those  of 
the  Rhine  (the  Grisons),  of  the  Reuss  (Canton  Uri),  of  the 
Rhone  (Canton  Valais),  and  the  Arve  (Faucigny), — all  of  them 
ill  ordinary  fine  summer  weather  oppressed  by  quiet  heat  in 
the  early  pjirt  of  the  day,  then  burst  in  upon  by  wild  wind 
blowing  up  the  valley  about  noon,  or  later  ; a diurnal  storm 
which  raises  the  dust  in  whirlwinds,  and  wholly  prevents  the 
growth  of  trees  in  any  beautiful  forms,  their  branches  being 
daily  tormented  into  every  irregular  and  fretful  curve  they 
can  be  strained  to,  and  their  leaves  wrung  round  on  the  stalks, 
so  that  half  their  vitality  is  torn  out  of  them. 

Strangely,  and,  so  far  as  I know,  without  notice  by  scien- 
tific men  of  the  difference,  the  Italian  valleys  are,  in  the  great- 
er number  of  them,  redeemed  from  this  calamitous  law.  I 
have  not  lately  been  in  either  Val  d’Aosta,  or  the  Valtelline, 


* The  blue  centaury-like  five  gentians  in  a level  cluster.  Among  the 
corn,  it  teaches,  like  the  poppy,  that  everything  isn’t  meant  to  be 
eaten. 


UHOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


o ^ o 
OO  >j 

nor  ever  stayed  in  the  upper  valley  of  the  Adige  ; but  neither 
in  tlie  Val  Anzasea,  the  Val  Formazza,  the  Val  d’Isella,  or  the 
southern  St.  Gothard,  is  there  any  trace  of  the  action  of  ma- 
lignant wind  like  this  northern  one,  wdiich  I suppose  to  be,  in 
the  essence  of  it,  the  summer  form  of  the  bise.  It  arises,  too 
fatally,  punctual  to  the  noon,  in  the  brightest  days  of  spring 
all  over  western  Savoy, 

Be  that  as  it  may,  in  the  fields  neighboring  the  two  villages 
wliich  mark  the  eastern  and  western  extremities  of  the  chain 
of  Mont  Blanc, — Sallenches,  namely,  and  Martigny,  wdiere  I 
have  passed  many  of  the  most  serviceable  days  of  my  life, — 
this  noon  wind,  associated  with  inundation,  is  one  of  the 
chief  agents  in  producing  the  character  of  the  whole  scene, 
and  in  forming  the  tempers  of  the  inhabitants.  Very  early 
my  mind  became  fixed  on  this  their  physical  distress,  issuing 
finall}^  not  in  the  distortion  of  growing  trees  only,  but  in 
abortion  of  human  form  and  mind,  while  yet  the  roots  of 
beauty  and  virtue  remained  always  of  the  same  strength  in 
the  race  ; so  that,  howmver  decimated  by  cretinism,  the  Savo- 
yard and  Valaisan  retain  to  this  day  their  vigorous  personal 
character,  wherever  the  conditions  of  ordinary  health  are 
observed  for  them. 

So  earnestl}^  was  my  heart  set  on  discovering  and  contend- 
ing with  the  neglect  and  error  which  W'ere  the  causes  of  so 
great  evil  to  so  noble  a people,  that — I must  here  anticipate 
the  progress  of  many  years— I waas  in  treaty  again  and  again 
for  pieces  of  land  near  the  chain  of  Mont  Blanc  on  which  I 
thought  to  establish  m3"  life,  and  round  wdiich  to  direct  its 
best  energies.  I first  actually  bought  the  piece  of  meadow  in 
Chamouni  above  the  chalets  of  Blaitiere ; but  sold  it  on  per- 
ceiving wdiat  ruin  was  inevitable  in  the  valley  after  it  became 
a tourist  rendezvous.  Next,  I entered  into  treaty  with  the 
Commune  of  Bonneville  for  the  purchase  of  the  whole  top  of 
the  Brezon  ; but  this  negotiation  came  to  nothing,  because 
the  Commune,  unable  to  see  why  anybody  should  want  to 
buy  a w^aste  of  barren  rock,  with  pasturage  only  for  a few 
goats  in  the  summer,  concluded  that  I had  found  a gold  mine 
or  a coal-bed  in  it,  and  raised  their  price  on  me  till  I left  the 
23 


354 


PBJBTERITA. 


Brezon  on  their  hands  : (Osborne  Gordon  having  also  walked 
up  with  me  to  my  proposed  hermitage,  and,  with  his  usual 
sagacitj^  calculated  the  daily  expense  of  getting  anything  to 
eat,  up  those  4,000  feet  from  the  plain.) 

Next,  I was  tempted  by  a grand,  fourteenth  century,  square- 
set  castle,  with  walls  six  feet  thick,  and  four  round  towers, 
cone-roofed,  at  the  angles,  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Arve,  be- 
low La  Boehe : but  this  baronial  residence  having  been  for 
many  years  used  by  the  farmer  to  whom  it  belonged  for  his 
fruit  store,  and  the  three  floors  of  it  only  accessible  by  lad- 
ders through  trap-doors  in  them,  and  soaked  through  with 
the  juice  of  rotten  apples  and  plums  ; — so  that  the  most  fea- 
sible way  of  making  the  place  habitable  would  have  been  to 
set  fire  to  the  whole,  and  refit  the  old  masonry  with  an  inner 
lodging  of  new  wood, — (which  might  as  well  have  been  built 
inside  a mountain  cave  at  once  as  within  those  six-feet  thick 
of  cemented  rock,) — I abandoned  also  the  idea  of  this  gloomy 
magnificence,  and  remained  fanc}^-free  till  1870,  when  I again 
was  about  to  enter  into  treaty  for  a farm  two  thousand  feet 
above  Martigny,  on  the  ridge  separating  the  Forclaz  from  the 
glen  of  the  Trient,  and  commanding  view  of  the  whole  valley 
of  the  Bhone,  westward  to  Sierre,  and  northward  to  Bex.  De- 
sign ended  by  my  illness  at  Matlock,  and  following  sorrow  ; 
of  which  ill  their  due  time. 

Up  to  the  year  with  which  I am  now  concerned,  however, 
1849,  when  I was  just  thirty,  no  jAans  of  this  sort  had  dawned 
on  me  : but  the  journeying  of  the  year,  mostly  alone,  by  the 
Alice  Blanche  and  Col  de  Ferret  round  Mont  Blanc  and  then 
to  Zermatt,  for  the  work  chiefly  necessary  to  the  fourth  vol- 
ume of  “Modern  Painters,”  gave  me  the  melancholy  knowl- 
edge of  the  agricultural  condition  of  the  great  Alpine  chain 
which  was  the  origin  of  the  design  of  St.  George’s  Guild  ; and 
that  walk  with  my  father  at  St.  Martin’s  virtually  closed  the 
days  of  youthful  happiness,  and  began  my  true  work  in  the 
world — for  what  it  is  \vorth. 

An  entry  or  two  from  the  beginning  of  the  year  may  be 
permitted,  connecting  old  times  with  new. 

“ April  15th,  Wednesday.  Left  home,  stayed  at  Folkestone, 


L' HOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


S55 


liappy,  but  with  bad  cough,  aud  slight  feverish  feeling,  till 
Monday,  Crossed  to  Boulogne,  with  desperate  cold  coming 
on.  Wrote  half  letter  to  Miss  Wedderburn,”  (afterward  Mrs. 
Blackburn,)  “in  carriage,  going  over:”  the  carriages,  of 
course,  in  old  times  being  lashed  on  the  deck,  one  sat  inside, 
either  for  dignity  or  shelter. 

“April  24th,  Tiiesda}^  To  Paris  on  rail.  Next  morning, 
very  tliankfully  changing  horses,  by  as  lovely  sunshine  as 
ever  I saw,  at  Charenton.  Slept  at  Sens.  Thursday,  Mont- 
bard  ; Friday,  Dijon.  All  these  evenings  I was  working  hard 
at  my  last  plate  of  Giotto.”  (G.’s  tower,  I meant ; frontis- 
piece to  “ Seven  Lamps,”  first  edition.)  “Stopped  behind  in 
the  lovely  morning  at  Sens,  and  went  after  my  father  and 
mother  an  hour  later.*  It  was  very  cold,  and  I was  driven 
out  by  the  fires  going  out,  it  being  in  the  large  room  at  the 
back  of  the  yard,  with  oil  pictures  only  to  be  got  at  through 
my  father’s  bedroom,  f 

“ April  29th,  Sunday,  was  a threatening  day  at  Champag- 
nole.  We  just  walked  to  the  entrance  of  the  wood  and  back, 
— I colded  and  coughing,  and  generally  headachy.  In  the 
evening  the  landlady,  who  noticed  my  illness,  made  me  some 
sirup  of  violets.  Whether  by  fanc}',  or  chance,  or  by  virtue 
of  violet  tea,  I got  better  thenceforward,  and  have,  thank 
God,  had  no  cold  since  ! ” (Diary  very  slovenly  hereabouts  ; 
I am  obliged  to  mend  a phrase  or  Lvo.) 

“Monday,  30th  April.  To  Geneva,  through  a good  deal  of 
snow,  by  St.  Cergues ; which  frightened  my  mother,  they 
having  a restive  horse  in  their  carriage.  She  got  out  on  a bank 
near  where  I saw  the  first  gentians,  and  got  into  mine,  as  far 
as  St.  Cergues.  It  is  deserving  of  record  that  at  this  time, 
just  on  the  point  of  coming  in  sight  of  the  Alps — and  that 
for  the  first  time  for  three  years,  a moment  which  I had 
looked  forward  to  thinking  I should  be  almost  fainting  with 

*They  liad  given  me  a little  brougham  to  myself,  like  the  hunting 
doctor’s  in  “ Puncli,”  so  that  I could  stop  behind,  and  catch  them  up 
when  I chose. 

f The  inn  is  fully  and  exquisitely  described  by  Dickens  in  “Mrs. 
Lirriper’s  Lodgings.” 


35G 


PR^TERITA. 


joy,  and  want  to  lie  down  on  the  earth  and  take  it  in  my 
arms  ; — at  this  time,  I say,  I was  irrecoverably  sulky  be- 
cause George  had  not  got  me  butter  to  my  bread  at  Les 
Rousses. 

“Tuesday,  1st  May.  Walked  about  Geneva,  went  to 
Bauttes’,  and  drew  wood  anemones. 

“Thursday,  3d  May,  Chambery.  Up  the  hill  that  looks 
toward  Aix,  with  my  father  and  mother  ; had  a chat  with  an 
old  man,  a proprietor  of  some  land  on  the  hillside,  who  com- 
l)lained  bitterly  that  the  priests  and  the  revenue  officers  seized 
everything,  and  that  nothing  but  black  bread  was  left  for  the 
peasant.'^' 

“Friday,  4th  May.  Half  breakfasted  at  Chambery  ; started 
about  seven  for  St.  Laurent  du  Pont,  thence  up  to  the 
Chartreuse,  and  walked  down  (all  of  us)  ; which,  however, 
being  done  in  a hurry,  I little  enjoyed.  But  a walk  after 
dinner  up  to  a small  chapel,  placed  on  a waving  group  of 
mounds,  covered  with  the  most  smooth  and  soft  sward,  over 
whose  sunny  gold  came  the  dark  piny  precipices  of  the 
Chartreuse  hills,  gave  me  infinite  pleasure.  I had  seen  also 
for  the  third  time,  by  the  Chartreuse  torrent,  the  most 
wonderful  of  all  Alpine  birds — a gray,  fiuttering  stealthy 
creature,  about  the  size  of  a sparrow,  but  of  colder  gray,  and 
more  graceful,  which  haunts  the  sides  of  the  fiercest  torrents. 
Tliere  is  something  more  strange  in  it  than  in  the  sea-gull — 
that  seems  a powerful  creature  ; and  the  power  of  the  sea, 
not  of  a kind  so  adverse,  so  hopelessly  destructive  ; but  this 
small  creature,  silent,  tender  and  light,  almost  like  a moth  in 
its  low  and  irregular  flight, — almost  touching  with  its  wings 
the  crests  of  waves  that  would  overthrow  a granite  wall,  and 
haunting  the  hollows  of  the  black,  cold,  herbless  rocks  that 
are  continually  shaken  by  their  spray,  has  perhaps  the  near- 
est approach  to  the  look  of  a spiritual  existence  I know  in 
animal  life. 

“ Saturday,  May  5th.  Back  to  Chambery,  and  up  by 


* Complaints  of  this  kind  always  mean  that  you  are  near  a luxurious 
capital  or  town.  In  this  case,  Aix  les  Bains. 


L'HOtEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


357 


Rousseau’s  house  to  the  point  ''vhere  the  thunder-shower 
came  down  on  us  three  years  ago.” 

I think  it  was  extremely  pretty  and  free-hearted  of  my 
mother  to  make  these  reverent  pilgrimages  to  Rousseau’s 
house.  ^ 

With  whom  I must  here  thankfully  name,  among  my  own 
masters,  also  St.  Pierre  : I have  shamefully  forgotten  hitherto 
the  immense  influence  of  “ Paul  and  Virginia  ” amid  my 
early  readings.  Rousseau’s  effective  political  power  I did  not 
know  till  much  later. 

Richard  Fall  arrived  that  Saturday  at  Chambery  ; and  by 
j way  of  amends  for  our  lost  Welsh  tour,  (above,  p.  241,  vol. 
ii.,)  I took  him  to  Vevay  and  Chamouni,  where,  on  May  14th, 
the  snow  was  still  down  to  the  valley  ; crisp  frost  everywhere  ; 
the  Montanvert  path  entirely  hidden,  and  clear  slopes  down 
all  the  couloirs  perfectly  even  and  smooth — ten  to  twenty  feet 
j deep  of  good,  compact  snow  ; no  treacherous  surface  beds 
that  could  slip  one  over  the  other, 
i Couttet  and  I took  Richard  up  to  the  cabane  of  the  Mon- 
' tan  vert,  memory  of  the  long  snow  walks  at  Herne  Hill  now 
mingling  tenderly  with  the  cloudless  brightness  of  the  Mer 
de  Glace,  in  its  robe  of  winter  ermine.  No  venturing  on 
that,  however,  of  course,  with  every  crevasse  hidden  ; and 
nobody  at  the  cabane  yet,  so  we  took  Richard  back  to  the 
first  couloir,  showed  him  how  to  use  foot  and  pole,  to  check 
himself  if  he  \vent  too  fast,  or  got  head-foremost ; and  we  slid 
down  the  two  thousand  feet  to  the  source  of  the  Arveron,  in 
some  seven  or  eight  minutes  ; f Richard  vouchsafing  his  en- 


* “ Les  Charmettes.”  So  also  “ un  detachement  de  la  troupe  ” (of 
! his  schoolboys)  “ sous  la  conduite  de  Mr.  Topfler,  qui  ne  sait  pas  le 
cheinin,  eiitreprend  de  gravir  le  coteau  des  Charmettes,  pour  atteiiidre 
a riiabitation  de  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau  ” — in  the  year  1833  ; and  an 
admirably  faithful  and  vivid  drawing  of  the  place,  as  it  then  stood 
(unchanged  till  1849,  when  papa  and  mamma  and  their  little  St.  Preu  s 
saw  it),  is  given  by  Mr.  Topffer's  own  hand  on  p,  17  of  his  work  here 
I quoted,  “Voyage  a la  Grande  Chartreuse,”  (1833). 

f Including  ecstatic  or  contemplative  rests  : of  coarse  one  goes  much 
1 faster  than  200  feet  a minute,  on  good  snow,  at  an  angle  of  30'’. 


I 


858 


PRMTEEITA. 


tire  approval  of  that  manner  of  progression  by  the  single 
significant  ej)ithet,  “ Pernicious  ! ” 

It  was  the  last  of  our  winter  walks  together.  Eichard  did 
not  die,  like  Charles,  but  he  went  on  the  Stock  Exchange 
married  a wife,  very  nice  and  pretty  ; then  grew  rich  ; held  a 
rich  man’s  faiths  in  political  economy  ; and  bought  bad  prints 
of  clipper  packets  in  green  sea  ; and  so  we  gradually  gave 
each  other  up — with  all  good  wishes  on  both  sides.  But 
Eichard,  having  no  more  winter  walks,  became  too  fat  and 
well  liking  when  he  was  past  fifty — and  did  die,  then  ; to  his 
sister’s  great  surprise  and  mine.  The  loss  of  him  broke  her 
heart,  and  she  soon  followed  him.  During  her  forty-five  or 
fift}"  years  of  life,  Eliza  Fall  (had  she  but  been  named  Eliza- 
beth instead,  I should  have  liked  her  ever  so  much  better)  re- 
mained an  entirely  worthy  and  unworldly  girl  and  woman,  of 
true  service  and  counsel  always  to  her  brother  and  me  ; car- 
ing for  us  both  much  more  than  she  was  cared  for  ; — to  my 
mother  an  affectionate  and  always  acceptable,  calling  and 
chatting,  friend  : capable  and  intelligent  from  her  earliest 
youth,  nor  without  graceful  fancy  and  rational  poetic  power. 
She  wrote  far  better  verses  than  ever  I did,  and  might  have 
drawn  well,  but  had  always  what  my  mother  called  “ perjin- 
ketty  ” ways,  which  made  her  typically  an  old  maid  in  later 
years.  I imagine  that,  without  the  least  unkind  severity,  she 
was  yet  much  of  a Puritan  at  heart,  and  one  rarely  heard,  if 
ever,  of  her  going  to  a theatre,  or  a rout,  or  a cricket-match ; 
yet  she  was  brilliant  at  a Christmas  party,  acted  any  part— 
that  depended  on  whalebone — admirably,  and  was  extremely 
witty  in  a charade.  She  felt  herself  sorrowfully  turned  out  of 
her  own  house  and  place  when  her  brother  married,  and  spent 
most  of  her  summers  in  travel,  with  another  wise  old  maid 
for  companion.  Then  Eichard  and  his  wife  went  to  live  in 
Clapham  Park;  and  Eliza  stayed,  wistfully  alone,  in  her 
child’s  home,  for  a while.  The  lease  expired,  I suppose,  and 
she  did  not  care  to  renew  it.  The  last  time  I saw  her,  she 
w”as  enjoying  some  sort  of  town  life  in  New  Bond  Street. 

Little  I thought,  in  clasping  Eichard’s  hand  on  the  ridge  of 
the  Jaman  that  spring, — he  going  down  into  the  Simmenthal, 


L'HOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANG. 


359 


I back  to  Vevay, — that  our  companying  together  was  ended  : 
but  I never  have  known  anything  of  what  was  most  seriously 
happening  to  me  till  afterward  ; this — unastrological  readers 
will  please  to  note — being  one  of  the  leaden  influences  on  me 
of  the  planet  Saturn. 

My  father  and  mother  were  waiting  for  me  at  Geneva,  and 
we  set  out,  with  short  delay,  for  St.  Martin’s. 

The  road  from  Geneva  to  Chamouni,  passing  the  extremity 
of  the  Saleve  about  five  miles  south  of  the  city,  reaches  at 
that  point  the  sandy  plateau  of  Annemasse,  where  forms  of 
passport  had  (anciently)  to  be  transacted,  which  gave  a quar- 
ter of  an  hour  for  contemplation  of  what  the  day  had  to  do. 

From  the  street  of  the  straggling  village  one  saw  over  the 
undulations  of  the  nearer,  and  blue  level  of  the  distant,  plain, 
a mass  of  rocky  mountains,  presenting  for  the  most  part  their 
cliffs  to  the  approaching  traveller,  and  tossing  their  crests 
back  in  careless  pride,  above  the  district  of  well  inhabited, 
but  seldom  traversed,  ravines  which  wind  between  the  lake  of 
Annecy  and  vale  of  Sallenches. 

Of  these  the  nearest—yet  about  twelve  miles  distant — is 
the  before-named  Brezon,  a majestic,  but  unterrific,  fortalice  of 
cliff,  forest,  and  meadow,  wfith  unseen  nests  of  village,  and 
unexpected  balm  and  honey  of  garden  and  orchard  nursed 
in  its  recesses.  The  horses  have  to  rest  at  Bonneville  before 
we  reach  the  foot  of  it ; and  the  line,  of  its  foundation  first, 
and  then  of  the  loftier  Mont  Vergy,  must  be  followed  for 
seven  or  eight  miles,  without  hope  apparently  of  gaining 
access  to  the  inner  mountain  world,  except  by  footpath. 

A way  is  opened  at  last  by  the  Arve,  which,  rushing  furi- 
ously through  a cleft  affording  room  only  for  road  and  river, 
grants  entrance,  when  the  strait  is  passed,  to  a valley  without 
the  like  of  it  among  the  Alps.  In  all  other  avenues  of  ap- 
proach to  their  central  crests  the  torrents  fall  steeply,  and  in 
places  appear  to  be  still  cutting  tiieir  channels  deeper,  while 
their  lateral  cliffs  have  evidently  been  in  earlier  time,  at  in- 
tervals, connected,  and  rent  or  worn  asunder  by  traceable 
violence  or  decay.  But  the  valley  of  Cluse  is  in  reality  a 
narrow  plain  between  two  chains  of  mountains  which  have 


360 


PB^TEBITA. 


never  been  united,  but  each  independently'*  raised,  shati 
tered,  and  softened  into  their  present  forms  ; while  the  river, 
instead  of  deepening  the  ravine  it  descends,  has  filled  it  to 
an  unknown  depth  with  beds  of  glacial  sand,  increased  an- 
nually, though  insensibly,  by  its  wandering  floods  ; but  now 
practically  level,  and  for  the  most  part  tenable,  with  a little 
logwork  to  fence  off  the  stream  at  its  angles,  in  large  spaces 
of  cultivable  land. 

In  several  turns  of  the  valley  the  lateral  cliffs  go  plumb 
down  into  these  fields  as  if  into  a green  lake  ; but  usually, 
slopes  of  shale,  now  forest-hidden,  ascend  to  heights  of  six  or 
seven  hundred  feet  before  the  cliffs  begin ; then  the  moun- 
tain above  becomes  partly  a fortress  wall,  partly  banks  of 
turf  ascending  around  its  bastions  or  between,  but  always 
guarded  from  avalanche  by  higher  woods  or  rocks ; the 
snows  melting  in  early  spring,  and  falling  in  countless  cas- 
cades, mostly  over  the  cliffs,  and  then  in  broken  threads 
down  the  banks.  Beautiful  always,  and  innocent,  the  higher 
summits  by  midsummer  are  snowless,  and  no  glacial  moraine 
or  torrent  defaces  or  disturbs  the  solitude  of  their  pastoral 
kingdom. 

Leaving  the  carriage  at  Cluse,  I always  used  to  walk, 
through  this  valley,  the  ten  miles  to  St.  Martin’s,  resting 
awdiile  at  the  springs  of  Maglan,  w^here,  close  under  the  cliff, 
the  water  thrills  imperceptibly  through  the  crannies  of  its 
fallen  stones,  deeper  and  deeper  every  instant ; till,  within 
three  fathoms  of  its  first  trickling  thread,  it  is  a deep  stream 
of  dazzling  brightness,  dividing  into  swift  branches  eager  for 
tbeir  work  at  the  mill,  or  their  ministry  to  the  meadows. 

Contrary  again  to  the  customs  of  less  enchanted  vales,  this 
one  opens  gradually  as  it  nears  the  greater  mountain,  its  own 
lateral  cliffs  rising  also  in  proportion  to  its  width — those  on 
tlje  left,  as  one  approaches  St.  Martin’s,  into  the  vast  towers 
and  promontories  of  the  Aiguille  de  Varens  ; those  on  the 
right  into  a mountain  scarcely  marked  in  any  Alpine  chart. 


In  the  .same  epoch  of  time,  however.  See  Mr.  Collingwood’s  “ Lime 
stone  .Alps  of  Savoj.” 


L' HOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


361 


yet  from  which,  if  one  could  climb  its  dangerous  turf  and 
mural  diadem,  there  must  be  commanded  precisely  the  most 
noble  view  of  Mont  Blanc  granted  by  any  summit  of  his  sen- 
tinel chains. 

In  the  only  map  of  Switzerland  which  has  ever  been  exe» 
cuted  with  common  sense  and  intelligence  (“  Original  von 
Keller’s  Zweiter  Reisekarte  der  Schweitz,”  1844),  this  peak  is, 
nevertheless,  left  without  distinction  from  that  called  the 
“ Croix  de  Fer,”  of  which  it  is  only  a satellite.  But  there  are 
any  quantity  of  iron  crosses  on  the  Western  Alps,  and  the 
proper  name  of  this  dominant  peak  is  that  given  in  M. 
Dajoz’s  lithographed  “Carte  des  rives  du  Lac  de  Geneve,”  — 
“ Mont  Fleury  ; ” though  the  more  usual  one  witli  the  old 
Chamouni  guides  w^as  “ Montagne  des  Fours  ; ” but  I never 
heard  any  name  given  to  its  castellated  outwork.  In  Studer’s 
geological  map. it  is  w^ell  drawn,  but  nameless;  in  the  Al- 
pine Club’s  map  of  South-Western  Alps,  it  is  only  a long 
ridge  descending  from  the  Mont  Fleury,  which,  there  called 
“ Pointe  Percee,”  bears  a star,  indicating  a view  of  Mont 
Blanc,  as  probably  of  Geneva  also,  from  that  summit.  But 
the  vision  from  the  lower  promontory,  which  commands  the 
Chamouni  aiguilles  wdth  less  foreshortening,  and  looks  steep 
down  into  the  valley  of  Cluse  from  end  to  end,  must  be  infi- 
nitely more  beautiful. 

Its  highest  ridge  is  just  opposite  the  Nant  d’Arpenaz,  and 
might  in  future  descriptions  of  the  Sallenche  mountains  be 
conveniently  called  the  “ Tower  of  Arpenaz.”  After  pass- 
ing the  curved  rock  from  wdiich  the  w^aterfail  leaps  into  its 
calm  festoons,  the  cliffs  become  changed  in  material,  first 
into  thin-bedded  blue  limestone,  and  then  into  dark  slates 
and  shales,  which  partly  sadden,  partly  enrich,  with  their 
cultivable  ruin,  all  the  low^er  hillsides  henceforward  to  the 
veiy  gate  of  Chamouni.  A mile  or  two  beyond  the  Nant 


* Chez  Briquet  et  Fils,  editeurs,  an  has  de  la  Cite  a Geneve,  1860  ; 
extremely  careful  in  its  delineation  of  the  lower  mountain  masses,  and 
on  the  whole  the  hest  existing  map  for  the  ordinary  traveller.  The 
Alpine  Club  maps  give  nothing  clearly  but  the  taverns  and  foot  paths. 


3G2 


Pn.ETERITA, 


d’Arpenaz  the  road  ascends  over  a bank  of  their  crumbling 
flakes,  which  the  little  stream,  pendent  like  a white  thread 
over  the  mid-clitf  of  the  Aiguille  de  Varens,  drifts  down  be- 
fore it  in  summer  rain,  lightly  as  dead  leaves.  The  old  peo- 
ple’s carriage  dips  into  the  trough  of  the  dry  bed,  descends 
the  gentle  embankment  on  the  other  side,  and  turns  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  inn  under  one  of  the  thin  arches,  raised  a 
foot  or  two  above  the  gap  in  the  wall,  which  give  honorable 
distinction  either  to  the  greater  vineyards  or  open  courts, 
like  this  one,  of  hospitable  houses.  Stableyard,  I should 
have  said,  not  courtyard  ; no  palatial  pride  of  seclusion,  like 
M.  Dessein’s,  but  a mere  square  of  irregular  stable, — not 
even  coach-house,  though  with  room  for  a carriage  or  two  : 
but  built  only  for  shelter  of  the  now  unknown  char-a-banc,  a 
seat  for  three  between  two  pairs  of  wheels,  with  a plank  for 
footing,  at  a convenient  step  from  the  ground.  The  fourth 
side  of  the  yard  was  formed  by  the  front  of  the  inn,  which 
stood  with  its  side  to  the  road,  its  back  to  the  neglected  gar- 
den and  incorrigible  streamlet : a two-storied  building  of 
solid  gray  stone,  with  gabled  roof  and  garrets ; a central 
passage  on  the  second  floor  giving  access  to  the  three  or  four 
bedrooms  looking  to  back  and  front,  and  at  the  end  to  an 
open  gallery  over  the  road.  The  last  room  on  the  left,  larger 
than  the  rest,  and  with  a window  opening  on  the  gallery, 
used  to  be  my  father’s  and  mother’s ; that  next  it,  with  one 
square  window  in  the  solid  wall,  looking  into  the  yard,  mine. 
Floors  and  partitions  all  of  rough-sawn  larch ; the  planks  of 
the  passage  floor  uncomfortably  thin  and  bending,  as  if  one 
might  easily  fall  through ; some  pretence  of  papering,  I 
think,  in  the  old  people’s  state-room.  A public  room,  about 
the  size  of  my  present  study,  say  twelve  paces  by  six  within 
its  cupboards,  and  usually  full  of  flies,  gave  us  the  end  of  its 
table  for  meals,  and  was  undisturbed  through  the  day,  except 
during  the  hour  when  the  diligence  dined. 

I should  have  said  that  my  square  window  looked  ouer, 
rather  than  into  the  yard,  for  one  could  scarcely  see  anything 
going  on  there,  but  by  putting  one’s  head  out ; the  real  and 
prevalent  prospect  was  first  into  the  leaves  of  the  walnut-tree 


L' HOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


363 


in  the  corner  ; then  of  the  mossy  stable  roofs  behind  them  ; 
then  of  the  delicately  tin-mailed  and  glittering  spire  of  the 
village  church;  and  beyond  these,  the  creamy,  curdling, 
overflowing  seas  of  snow  on  the  Mont  Blanc  de  St.  Gervais. 
The  Aiguille  de  Bionnassay,  the  most  graceful  buttress  ridge 
in  all  the  Alps,  and  Mont  Blanc  himself,  above  the  full  fronts 
of  the  Aiguille  and  Dome  du  Goute,  followed  further  to  the 
left.  So  much  came  into  the  field  of  that  little  four-feet- 
square  casement. 

If  one  had  a mind  for  a stroll,  in  half  a minute’s  turn  to  the 
left  from  the  yard  gate  one  came  to  the  aforesaid  village 
church,  the  size  of  a couple  of  cottages,  and  one  could  lean, 
stooping,  to  look  at  it,  on  the  deeply  lichened  stones  of  its 
low  churchyard  wall,  which  enclosed  the  cluster  of  iron  cros- 
ses,— floretted  with  everlastings,  or  garlands  of  fresh  flowers 
if  it  was  just  after  Sunday, — on  two  sides  ; the  cart-path  to 
the  upper  village  branching  off  round  it  from  the  road  to 
Chamouni.  Fifty  yards  further,  one  came  to  the  single- arched 
bridge  by  which  the  road  to  Sallenche,  again  dividing  from 
that  of  Chamouni,  crosses  the  Arve,  clearing  some  sixty  feet 
of  strongly-rushing  water  with  a leap  of  lovely  elliptic  curve  ; 
lovely,  because  here  traced  with  the  lightest  possible  sub- 
stance of  masonry,  rising  to  its  ridge  without  a pebble’s 
weight  to  spare,*  and  then  signed  for  sacred  pontifical  work 
by  a cross  high  above  the  parapet,  seen  from  as  far  as  one 
can  see  the  bridge  itself. 

Neither  line,  nor  word,  nor  color,  has  ever  yet  given  ren- 
dering of  the  rich  confusions  of  garden  and  cottage  through 
which  the  winding  paths  ascend  above  the  church ; walled, 
not  with  any  notion  of  guarding  the  ground,  except  from 
passing  herds  of  cattle  and  goats,  but  chiefly  to  get  the  stones 
off  the  surface  into  narrowest  compass,  and,  with  the  easy 
principle  of  horticulture, — plant  everything,  and  let  wdiat  can, 


* Of  course,  in  modern  levelled  bridges,  with  any  quantity  of  over- 
charged masonry,  the  opening  for  the  stream  is  not  essentially  an  arch, 
but  a tunnel,  and  might  for  that  matter  be  blown  through  the  solid 
wall,  instead  of  built  to  bear  it. 


36i 


PRMTERITA. 


grow  ; — the  under-crops  of  unkempt  pease,  potatoes,  cabbage, 
hemp,  and  maize,  content  with  what  sun  can  get  down  to 
tliem  through  luxuriantly-branched  apple  and  plum  trees, 
and  towering  shade  of  walnuts,  with  trunks  eight  or  ten  feet 
in  girth ; a little  space  left  to  light  the  fronts  of  the  cot- 
tages themselves,  whose  roof  and  balconies,  the  vines  seem 
to  think,  have  been  constructed  for  their  pleasure  only,  and 
climb,  wreathe,  and  swing  themselves  about  accordingly 
wherever  they  choose,  tossing  their  young  tendrils  far  up  into 
the  blue  sky  of  spring,  and  festooning  the  balconies  in  au- 
tumn with  Correggian  fresco  of  purple,  relieved  against  the 
pendent  gold  of  the  harvested  maize. 

The  absolute  seclusion  and  independence  of  this  manner 
of  rural  life,  totally  without  thought  or  forethought  of  any 
foreign  help  or  parsimonious  store,  drinking  its  wine  out  of 
the  cluster,  and  saving  of  the  last  year’s  harvest  only  seed 
for  the  next, — the  serene  laissez  faire  given  to  God  and 
nature,  with  thanks  for  the  good,  and  submission  to  the  tem- 
porary evil  of  blight  or  flood,  as  due  to  sinful  mortality  ; and 
the  persistence,  through  better  or  'worse,  in  their  fathers’ 
ways,  and  use  of  their  fathers’  tools,  and  holding  to  their 
fathers’  names  and  fields,  faithfully  as  the  trees  to  their  roots, 
or  the  rocks  to  their  wild  flowers, — all  this  beside  us  for  our 
Sunday  -vN^alk,  with  the  gray,  inaccessible  walls  of  the  Tower  of 
Arpenaz  above,  dim  in  their  distant  height,  and  all  the  morn- 
ing air  twice  brighter  for  the  glow  of  the  cloudless  glaciers, 
gave  me  deeper  and  more  wonderful  joy  than  all  the  careful 
beauty  and  disciplined  rightness  of  the  Bernese  Oberland,  or 
even  the  stately  streets  of  my  dearest  cities  of  Italy. 

Here  is  a little  bit  of  diary,  five  years  later,  giving  a detail 
or  two  of  the  opposite  hillside  above  Sallenche. 

“ St.  Martin’s,  26th  July,  1854.  I was  up  by  the  millstream 
this  evening,  and  climbed  to  the  right  of  it,  up  among  the 
sloping  waves  of  grass.  I never  was  so  struck  by  their  intense 
beauty, — the  masses  of  walnut  shading  them  with  their 
broad,  cool,  clearly-formed  leafage  ; the  glossy  gray  stems  of 
the  cherry  trees,  as  if  bound  round  tight  with  satin,  twining 
and  writhing  against  the  shadows  ; the  tall  pollards  of  oak  set 


VHOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


SG5 


here  and  there  in  the  soft  banks,  as  if  to  show  their  smooth- 
ness by  contrast,  yet  themselves  beautiful,  rugged,  and  covered 
with  deep  brown  and  bright  silver  moss.  Here  and  there  a 
chestnut— sharp,  and  soft,  and  starry;*  and  always  the  steep 
banks,  one  above  another,  melting  f into  terraces  of  pure  vel- 
vet, gilded  with  corn  ; here  and  there  a black — jet-black — 
crag  of  slate  breaking  into  a frown  above  them,  and  moulder- 
ing away  down  into  the  gloomy  torrent,  fringed  on  its  oppo- 
site edge,  a grisly  cliff,  with  delicate  birch  and  pine,  rising 
against  the  snow  light  of  Mont  Blanc.  And  opposite  always 
the  mighty  Varens  lost  in  the  cloud  its  ineffable  walls  of 
crag.” 

The  next  following  entry  is  worth  keeping,  as  a sketch  of 
the  undisturbed  Catholicism  among  these  hills  since  the  days 
of  St.  Bernard  of  Annecy,  and  Mont  Velan. 

“ Sallenches,  Sunda}%  10th  June  (1849).  The  waitress  here, 
a daughter  of  the  landlord,  asked  me  to-day  whether  Prot- 
estants all  said  grace  before  meat,  observing  me  to  do  so.  On 
this  we  got  into  conversation,  out  of  which  I have  elicited 
some  points  worth  remembering  ; to  wit,  that  some  of  the  men 
only  go  to  confession  once  a year,  and  that  some  of  them,  to 
spare  their  memories,  write  their  sins, — which,  however,  they 
cannot  deliver  on  paper  to  the  confessor,  but  must  read  them 
aloud.  Louise  appeared  much  horror-struck  at  the  idea  which 
such  a procedure  admits,  of  ‘ losing  one’s  sins  ; ’ and  of  their 
being  found  by  some  one  who  was  not  a confessor.  She  spoke 
with  great  pleasure  of  the  Capucihs  wdio  come  sometimes ; 
said  they  were  such  delightful  confessors,  and  made  ‘ des 
morales  superbes,’  and  that  they  j)reached  so  well  that  every- 
body listened  with  all  their  might,  so  that  you  might  tap  them 
on  the  back  and  they  would  never  turn  round.  Of  the  Jesuits 
she  spoke  with  less  affection,  saying  that  in  their  great  general 
confessions,  which  took  several  daj-s,  two  or  three  command- 


* I meant — the  leaves  themselves,  sharp,  the  clustered  nuts,  soft,  the 
arrangement  of  leaves,  starry. 

f “ Meltiiig  ’’—seeming  to  flow  into  the  levels  like  lava  ; not  cut  sharp 
down  to  them. 


366 


PR.'ETERITA. 


ments  at  a time,  they  would  not  allow  a single  sin  to  be  com- 
mitted by  the  persons  coming  to  them  in  the  meantime,  or  else 
they  refused  them  absolution — refusal  which  takes  place  some- 
times for  less  cause.  They  had  a poor  old  servant,  who  could 
only  speak  patois  ; the  priest  couldn’t  understand  her,  nor  she 
him,  so  that  he  could  not  find  out  whether  she  knew  her 
catechism.  He  refused  absolution,  and  the  poor  old  creature 
wept  and  raved  about  it,  and  was  in  a passion  with  all  the 
world.  She  was  afterward  burned  in  the  great  fire  here  ! I 
went  to  mass,  to  hear  how  they  preached  : the  people  orderly, 
and  church  perfectly  full.  The  sermon,  by  a fat  stuttering 
cure,  was. from  the  ‘Receive  not  the  grace  of  God  in  vain,’  on 
the  Sacraments.  ‘ Two  of  these  called  Sacrernens  des  Morts, 
because  they  are  received  by  persons  in  a state  of  spiritual 
death ; the  five  others  called  Sacramens  des  Vivants,  because 
thej^  presume,  in  those  who  receive  them,  a state  of  spiritual 
life.  The  three  sacraments  of  Baptism,  Confirmation,  and 
Orders,  can  only  be  received  once  ; because  they  impress  an 
indelible  seal,  and  make  men  what  they  were  not ; and  what, 
after  they  are  once,  they  cannot  unmake  themselves.  Baptism 
makes  people  children  or  subjects  of  God  ; Confirmation  makes 
them  soldiers  of  God,  or  soldiers  of  His  Kingdom  ; and  Orders 
make  them  magistrates  of  the  Kingdom.  If  you  have  re- 
ceived baptism,  you  are  therefore  an  “enfan  de  Dieu.’” 
What  being  an  ‘ enfan  de  Dieu  ’ meant  was  not  very  clear  ; 
for  the  inefface ability  of  baptism  was  illustrated  by  the  in- 
stance of  Julian  the  Apostate,  who  did  all  he  could  to  efface 
it — ‘Maisla  mort,  ’ said  the  preacher,  growing  eloquent,  ‘le 
poursuivit  jusqu’a’ — (he  stopped,  for  he  did  not  know  exactly 
where  to) — ‘ la  tombe  ; et  il  est  descendu  aux  enters,  portant 
cette  marque,  qui  fera  eternellement  sa  honte  et  sa  confusion.’  ” 
I wonder  at  the  lightness  of  these  entries,  now  ; but  I was 
too  activel}%  happily,  and  selfishly  busy,  to  be  thoughtful,  ex- 
cept only  in  scholarly  wa}^ ; but  I got  one  of  the  sharpest 
warnings  of  my  life  only  a day  after  leaving  papa  and  mamma 
at  St.  Martin’s — (cruel  animal  that  I was  ! — to  do  geology  in 
the  Allee  Blanche,  and  at  Zermatt.)  I got  a chill  by  stopping, 
when  I was  hot,  in  the  breeze  of  one  of  the  ice  streams,  in  as- 


VlldTEL  DU  MOKT  BLANC. 


SG7 


cending  to  the  Col  de  Bon  Homme  ; woke  next  morning  in  the 
clialet  of  Chapih  with  acute  sore  throat ; crossed  the  Col  de 
la  Seigne  scarcely  able  to  sit  my  mule,  and  was  put  to  bed  by 
CoLittet  in  a little  room  under  the  tiles  at  Courmayeur,  where 
he  nursed  me  as  he  did  at  Padua  ; gave  me  hot  herb-tea,  and 
got  me  on  muleback  again,  and  over  the  Col  de  Ferret,  in  a 
day  or  two  ; but  there  were  some  hours  of  those  feverish  nights 
which  ought  to  have  made  my  diaries  more  earnest  afterward. 
They  go  off,  however,  into  mere  geology  and  school  divinity 
for  a while,  of  which  this  bit,  written  the  evening  after  cross- 
ing the  Col  de  Ferret,  is  important  as  evidence  of  ray  begin- 
ning to  recognize  what  James  Forbes  had  proved  of  glacier 
flow : — 

“ The  most  magnificent  piece  of  ruin  I have  yet  seen  in  the 
Alps  is  that  opposite  the  embouchure  of  the  lower  glacier  of 
the  Val  de  Ferret,  near  Courmayeur  ; the  pines  are  small  in- 
deed, but  they  are  hurled  hither  and  thither,  twisted  and 
mingled  in  all  conditions  of  form,  and  all  phases  of  expiring 
life,  with  the  chaos  of  massy  rocks,  which  the  glacier  has 
gnashed  down,  or  the  opposite  mountain  hurled.  And  yet, 
farther  on,  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  there  is  another,  in  its 
way  as  wonderful ; less  picturesque,  but  wilder  still, — the  re- 
mains of  the  eboulement  of  the  Glacier  de  Triolet  caused  by 
the  fall  of  an  aiguille  near  the  Petits  Jorasses — the  most 
phrenzied  accumulation  of  moraines  I have  ever  seen  ; not 
dropped  one  by  one  into  a heap,  and  pushed  forward  by  the 
ice  ploughshare,  but  evidently  borne  down  by  some  mingled 
torrent  of  ice  and  rock  and  flood,  with  the  swiftness  of  water 
and  the  weight  of  stone,  and  thrown  along  the  mountain-side 
like  pebbles  from  a stormy  sea  ; — but  the  ruins  of  an  Alp  in- 
stead of  the  powder  of  a flint  bed.  The  glacier  torrent  of  Triolet 
is  almost  lost  among  them,  but  that  below,  coming  just  from 
the  base  of  the  Jorasses,  is  exquisite  beyond  description  in  the 
play  of  its  currents,  narrow  eddies  of  white  neve  round  islands 
of  rock — falling  in  upon  each  other  in  deep  and  eddying  pools  ; 
flowing  forth  again  in  massy  sheets  of  ice,  feeding,  not  one 
glacier  stream,  but  cascade  above  cascade,  far  into  the  moun- 
tain gulph." 


368 


PRJETERITA, 


And  so  on,  of  divers  matters,  through  four  hundred  and 
fifty  pages ; not  all  as  good  as  that,  hut  the  core  of  what  I 
had  to  learn  and  teach  about  gneiss  and  ice  and  clouds ; — 
George  indefatigably  carrying  his  little  daguerreotype  box 
up  everywhere,  and  taking  the  first  image  of  the  Matterhorn, 
as  also  of  the  aiguilles  of  Chamouni,  ever  drawn  by  the  sun. 
A thing  to  be  proud  of  still,  though  he  is  now  a justice  of 
peace,  somewhere  in  Australia. 

The  following  entries,  in  June,  of  which  the  two  last  come 
in  the  midst  of  busy  and  otherwise  happy  days,  are  all  with 
which  I permit  myself  to  trouble  the  reader  for  this  time. 

“ Chamouni,  Sunday,  June  17th.  Quiet  south  rain  till 
twelve  o’clock.  I have  been  abstracting  the  book  of  Revela- 
tion (they  say  the  French  are  beaten  again  at  Rome,  and 
another  revolution  in  Paris)  ; many  signs  seem  to  multiply 
around  us,  and  yet  my  unbelief  yields  no  more  than  when 
all  the  horizon  was  clear.  I was  especially  stmck  with  the 
general  appellation  of  the  system  of  the  world  as  the  ‘ Mys- 
tery of  God,’  Chap.  x.  7,  compared  with  Hebrews  xi.  6,  which 
I read  this  morning  in  our  usual  course.*  Theme  enough 
for  the  day’s  thought. 

“ Half-past  five.  Pouring  still,  but  I got  out  before  dinner 
during  a fine  blink,  which  lasted  just  long  enough  to  let  me, 
by  almost  running,  and  leaping  all  the  streams,  reach  the  end 
of  the  pine  wood  next  the  source  of  the  Arveron.  There  I 
had  to  turn  to  the  left  to  the  wooden  bridge,  when  behold  a 
sight  new  to  me  ; an  avalanche  had  evidently  taken  place 
fi-om  the  (upper)  glacier  into  the  very  bed  of  the  great  cata- 


* Read  the  5th,  6th,  and  7th  verses  in  succession : — “ And  the  angel 

WHICH  I SAW  STAND  UPON  THE  SEA  AND  UPON  THE  EARTH  LIFTED  UP 
HIS  HAND  TO  HEAVEN,  AND  SWARE  HY  HIM  THAT  LIVETH  FOR  EVER 
AND  EVER,  WHO  CREATED  HEAVEN,  AND  THE  THINGS  THAT  THERIN 
ARE,  AND  THE  EARTH,  AND  THE  THINGS  THAT  THERIN  ARE,  AND  THE 
SEA,  AND  THE  THINGS  WHICH  ARE  THERIN,  THAT  THERE  SHOULD  BE 
TIME  NO  LONGER  : BUT  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEVENTH 
ANGEL,  WHEN  HE  SHALL  BEGIN  TO  SOUND,  THE  MYSTERY  OF  Goil 
SHOULD  BE  FINISHED,  AS  HE  HATH  DECLARED  TO  HIS  SERVANTS  THE 
PROPHETS.  ” 


VHOTEL  DU  MONT  BLANC. 


369 


ract,  and  the  stream  was  as  nearly  choked  as  could  be  with 
balls  and  ellipsoids  of  ice,  from  the  size  of  its  common  stones 
to  that  of  a portmanteau,  which  were  rolling  down  with  it 
wildly,  generally  swinging  out  and  in  of  the  water  as  it 
\vaved  ; but  when  they  came  to  the  shallow  parts,  tumbled 
and  tossed  over  one  another,  and  then  plunging  back  into  the 
deep  water  like  so  many  stranded  porpoises,  spinning  as 
they  went  down,  and  showing  their  dark  backs  with  wilder 
swings  after  their  plunge, — white,  as  they  eni^erged,  black, 
owing  to  their  clearness  as  seen  in  the  water  ; the  stream  itself 
of  a pale  clay-color,  opaque,  larger  by  one-half  than  ever  I 
saw  it,  and  running,  as  I suppose,  not  less  than  ten  miles  an 
hour ; the  whole  mass,  water  and  ice,  looking  like  some  thick 
paste  full  of  plums,  or  ill-made  pineapple  ice,  with  quantities 
of  fruit  in  it,  and  the  v/hole  looking  like  a solid  body  ; for  the 
nodules  of  ice  hardly  changed  their  relative  position  during 
the  quarter  of  a minute  they  were  severally  in  sight,  going 
down  in  a mass  thundering  and  rumbling  against  the  piles  of 
the  bridge.  It  made  me  giddy  to  look  at  it ; and  the  more, 
because,  on  raising  the  eye,  there  was  always  the  great 
cataract  itself  startling  one,  as  if  it  had  just  begun  and  seem- 
ing to  increase  every  instant,  bounding  and  hurling  itself 
hither  and  thither,  as  if  it  was  striving  to  dash  itself  to 
pieces,  not  falling  because  it  could  not  help  it  ; and  behind 
there  was  a fearful  storm  coming  up  by  the  Breven,  its  grisly 
clouds  warping  up,  as  it  seemed,  against  the  river  and  cata- 
ract, with  pillars  of  hail  behind.  I stayed  till  it  began,  and 
then  crept  back  through  the  wood,  running  from  one  tree  to 
another — there  is  really  now  a bit  of  blue  sky  over  the 
Pavilion,^ 

“ June  18th.  Evening,  nine  o’clock.  I must  not  write  much, 
it  is  past  bed-time  ; went  to  source  of  Arveron  with  my  father 
and  mother  and  Miss  Dowie  ; f newer  saw  it  so  lovely  ; drew 
afterward  near  the  source,  piny  sketch,  well  begun.  After 
tea  walked  up  nearly  to  my  beloved  old  place  on  the  Breven, 


* The  green  mountain  at  tlie  base  of  the  Aiguille  du  Gontc. 
f Sybilla.  See  “Fors,”  Letter  9Uth,  “Lest  Jewels,”  p.  lOo. 


370 


PB^TERITA. 


and  saw  a solemn  sanset^  yet  not  very  bright ; the  granulated 
rosy  crags  of  La  Cote  especially.  Thank  God  for  permitting 
me  to  sit  on  that  slope  once  more  thus  strong  in  health  and 
limb, 

Chamoimi,  day  13th,  Monday,  June  25th,  Up  rather  late 
ibis  morning,  and  lost  time  before  breakfast  over  camera- 
iucida  ; drove  to  Argentiere  with  my  mother,  who  enjoyed 
her  drive  exceedingly  ; back  at  one  o’clock  to  iny  usual  place 
(Les  Tines,  tilifour)  ; out  after  dinner,  rambling  about  Breven 
with  sketch-book  in  search  of  a view  of  Aiguille  du  Plan  ; 
didn’t  find  one,  but  found  some  wild  strawbeiTies,  which  were 
a consolation.  The  day  has  been  fine,  with  scattered  clouds  ; 
in  the  evening  a most  curious  case  of  floating  cap  cloud, 
hooding  the  Mont  Blanc  summit  without  touching  it,  like 
gossamer  blown  upward  from  a field  ; an  awning  of  slender 
threads  waving  like  weeds  in  the  blue  sky,  (as  weeds  in  a 
brook  current,  I meant,)  and  drawn  out  like  floss  silk  as  fine 
as  snow.  This  cloud,  that  does  not  touch  tlie  snow,  but 
hovel's  over  it  at  a certain  height  following  the  convexity  of 
the  mountain,  has  always  seemed  most  unaccountable  to 
me. 

“ Chamouni,  day  14th,  Tuesday,  June  26th.  Heavy,  round- 
ed, somewhat  dirty  clouds  on  the  Pavilion  (half-past  six)  ; but 
summit  brtght  and  clear,  and  all  very  promising. 

“ Get  following  books  if  possible — 

“ ‘Memoires  de  la  Societe  de  Physique  et  d’Histoire  Natu- 
relie  de  Geneve  ’ (i  iv.,  p.  209),  on  the  valley  of  Val  Orsine, 
by  M.  Necker  ; ‘ Actes  de  la  Societe  Helvetique  des  Sc.  Nat.* 
1837,  p.  28,  1839,  p.  47,  on  Nagelflue  pebbles. 

“ Evening.  After  one  of  the  most  heavenly  walks  I ever  took 
in  Chamouni  among  the  w'oods  of  the  Pelenns,  I come  in  to 
hear  of  my  poor  cousin  Maiy’s  death.  How  well  I recollect 
sitting  with  her  on  the  slopes  of  the  Breven,  and  reasoning 
about  the  height  of  La  Cote  : she  knows  it  now,  better  than  I 
and  thinks  it  less. 

“ Chamouni,  day  15th,  Wednesday,  June  27th.  One  of  the 
lieavenly  Alpine  mornings,  all  alight : I have  been  tiying  to 
get  some  of  the  effect  of  sunrise  on  the  Mon  tan  vert,  and 


OTTERBURN. 


371 


aerial  quality  of  aiguilles, — in  vain.  Slanting  rays  now  touch 
the  turf  by  the  chalet  of  Blaitiere,  as  perhaps  they  touch  poor 
Mary’s  grave.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OTTERBURN. 

In  blaming  myself,  as  often  I have  done,  and  may  have 
occasion  to  do  again,  for  my  want  of  aJBfection  to  other  peo- 
ple, I must  also  express  continually,  as  I think  back  about  it, 
more  and  more  wonder  that  ever  anybody  had  any  affection 
for  me.  I thought  they  might  as  well  have  got  fond  of  a 
camera  lucida,  or  an  ivory  foot-rule  : all  my  faculty  was 
merely  in  showing  that  such  and  such  things  were  so  ; I was 
no  orator,  no  actor,  no  painter  but  in  a minute  and  generally 
invisible  manner  ; and  I couldn’t  bear  being  interrupted  in 
anything  I was  about. 

Nevertheless,  some  sensible  grown  up  people  did  get  to 
like  me  ! — the  best  of  them  with  a protective  feeling  that  I 
wanted  guidance  no  less  than  sympathy  ; and  the  higher 
religious  souls,  hoping  to  lead  me  to  the  golden  gates. 

I have  no  memory,  and  no  notion,  v/hen  I first  mw  Pauline, 
Lady  Trevelyan  ; but  she  became  at  once  a monitress-friend 
in  whom  I wholly  trusted,— (not  that  I ever  took  her  advice  ! ) 
— and  the  happiness  of  her  own  life  was  certainly  increased 
by  my  books  and  me.  Sir  Walter,  being  a thorough  botan- 
ist, and  interested  in  pure  science  generally,  did  not  hunt, 
but  was  benevolently  useful,  as  a landlord  should  be,  in  his 
county.  I had  no  interests  in  county  business  at  that  time  ; 
but  used  to  have  happy  agricultural  or  floral  chats  with  Sir 
Walter,  and  entirely  admired  his  unambitious,  yet  dignified 
stability  of  rural,  and  celestial,  life,  there  amidst  the  North- 
umbrian winds. 

Wallington  is  in  the  old  Percy  country,  the  broad  descent 
of  main  valley  leading  down  by  Otterburn  from  the  Cheviots. 
An  ugly  house  enough  it  was  ; square  set,  and  somewhat  bai’e 


372 


PRu^TERITA. 


walled,  looking  down  a slope  of  rough  wide  field  to  a burn, 
the  Wansbeck,  neither  bright  nor  rapid,  but  with  a ledge  or 
two  of  sandstone  to  drip  over,  or  lean  against  in  pools ; bits 
of  crag  in  the  distance,  worth  driving  to,  for  sight  of  the 
sweeps  of  moor  round  them,  and  breaths  of  breeze  from 
Carter  Fell. 

There  were  no  children  of  its  own  in  Wallington,  but  Lady 
Trevel}'an’s  little  niece,  Constance  Hilliard,  nine  years  old 
when  I first  saw  her  there,  glittered  about  the  place  in  an  ex- 
tremely quaint  and  witty  way  ; and  took  to  me  a little,  like 
her  aunt.  Afterward  her  mother  and  she,  in  their  little  rec- 
tory home  at  Cowley  (near  Hillingdon),  became  important 
among  my  feminine  friendships,  and  gave  me,  of  such  petting 
and  teasing  as  women  are  good  for,  sometimes  more  than 
enough. 

But  the  dearness  of  Wallington  was  founded,  as  years 
went  on,  more  deeply  in  its  having  made  known  to  me  the 
best  and  truest  friend  of  all  my  life  ; he^it  for  me,  because  he 
was  of  my  father’s  race,  and  native  town  ; truest,  because  he 
knew  always  how  to  help  us  both,  and  never  made  any  mis- 
takes in  doing  so — Dr.  John  Brown.  He  was  staying  at 
Wallington  when  I stopped  there  on  my  way  to  give  my  Edin- 
burgh lectures  ; and  we  walked  together,  with  little  Connie, 
on  the  moors  : it  dawned  on  me,  so,  gradually,  what  manner 
of  man  he  was. 

This,  the  reader  capable  of  learning  at  all — (there  are  few 
now  who  can  understand  a good  Scotchman  of  the  old  classic 
breed) — had  better  learn,  straightway,  from  the  record  ha 
gave  of  his  own  father’s  life,*  of  which  I must  give  here  this 
one  passage  of  his  childhood.  His  father  was  a young  pastor, 
crowned  in  perfectness  of  faithful  service,  together  with  his 
“ modest,  calm,  thrift}^,  reasonable,  happy-hearted  ” wife,  his 
student-love  ; this  their  son,  five  years  old, — just  at  the  age 
w'hen  I look  back  to  the  creation  of  the  world,  for  me,  in 
Friar’s  Crag,  of  Derwentwater  ; my  mother,  thrifty  and  rea- 
sonable also,  meantime  taking  care  that  not  more  than  two 


* Letter  to  Rev.  John  Cairns.  Edmonston  and  Douglas,  1861. 


OTTERBURN. 


373 


plums  should  be  in  my  pie  for  dinner  ; my  father,  also  thrifty 
and  reasonable,  triumphing  in  his  travel  at  Whitehaven,  a 
“ wanderer,”  like  the  pedler  in  the  “Excursion,”  selling  sher- 
ry instead  of  bobbins  ; — all  of  us  as  happy  as  cicadas  (and  a 
little  more).  Now  hear  Dr.  John  Brown  : 

“ On  the  morning  of  the  28th  May,  1816,  my  eldest  sister 
Janet  and  I were  sleeping  in  the  kitchen-bed  with  Tibbie 
Meek,  our  only  servant.  We  were  all  three  awakened  by 
a cry  of  pain — sharp,  insufferable,  as  if  one  were  stung. 
Years  after  w^e  two  confided  to  each  other,  sitting  by  the 
burnside,  that  we  thought  that  ‘ great  cry  ’ which  arose  at 
midnight  in  Egypt  must  have  been  like  it.  We  all  knew 
whose  voice  it  was,  and,  in  our  night-clothes,  we  ran  into  the 
passage,  and  into  the  little  parlor  to  the  left  hand,  in  which 
was  a closet-bed.  We  found  my  father  standing  before  us, 
erect,  his  hands  clenched  in  his  black  hair,  his  eyes  full  of 
misery  and  amazement,  his  face  w^hite  as  that  of  the  dead. 
He  frightened  us.  He  saw  this,  or  else  his  intense  will  had 
mastered  his  agony,  for,  taking  his  hands  from  his  head,  he 
said,  slowly  and  gently,  ‘ Let  us  give  thanks,’  and  turned  to 
a little  sofa  * in  the  room ; there  lay  our  mother,  dead. 
She  had  long  been  ailing.  I remember  her  sitting  in  a 
shawl, — an  Indian  one  with  little  dark  green  spots  on  alight 
ground, — and  watching  her  growing  pale  with  what  I 
afterward  knew  must  have  been  strong  pain.  She  had,  be- 
ing feverish,  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  ‘ grandmother,’  her 
mother,  seeing  her  ‘ change  come,’  had  called  my  father,  and 
they  two  saw  her  open  her  blue,  kind,  and  true  eyes,  ‘ com- 
fortable ’ to  us  all  ‘as  the  day’-— I remember  them  better 
than  those  of  any  one  I saw  yesterday — and,  with  one  faint 
look  of  recognition  to  him,  close  them  till  the  time  of  the 
restitution  of  all  things.” 

He  had  a precious  sister  left  to  him  ; but  his  life,  as  the 
noblest  Scottish  lives  are  always,  was  thenceforward  gener- 
ously sad, — and  endlessly  pitiful. 

* “This  sofa,  which  was  henceforward  sacred  in  the  house,  he  had 
always  beside  him.  He  used  to  tell  us  he  set  her  down  upon  it  when 
he  brought  her  home  to  the  manse.” 


374 


Pli^TERITA, 


No  one  has  yet  separated,  in  analyzing  the  mind  of  Seott, 
the  pity  from  the  pride ; no  one,  in  the  mind  of  Carlyle,  the 
pity  from  the  anger. 

Lest  I should  not  be  spared  to  write  another  “ Prseterita,” 
I will  give,  in  this  place,  a few  words  of  Carlyle’s,  which 
throw  more  lovely  light  on  his  character  than  any  he  has 
written, — as,  indeed,  his  instantly  vivid  words  always  did ; 
and  it  is  a bitter  blame  and  shame  to  me  that  I have  not  re- 
corded those  spoken  to  myself,  often  with  trust  and  affection, 
always  with  kindness.  But  I find,  this  piece,  nearly  word  for 
word,  in  my  diary  of  25th  October,  1874.  He  had  been 
quoting  the  last  words  of  Goethe,  “ Open  the  window,  let  us 
have  more  light  ” (this  about  an  hour  before  painless  death, 
his  eyes  failing  him). 

I referred  to  the  “ It  grows  dark,  boys,  you  may  go,”  of 
the  great  master  of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh.*  On 
which  Carlyle  instantly  opened  into  beautiful  account  of 
Adam’s  early  life,  his  intense  zeal  and  industry  as  a poor  boy 
in  a Highland  cottage,  lying  flat  on  the  hearth  to  learn  his 
Latin  grammar  by  the  light  of  a peat  fire.  Carlyle’s  own 
memory  is  only  of  Adam’s  funeral,  when  he,  Carlyle,  was  a 
boy  of  fourteen,  making  one  of  a crowd  waiting  near  the  gate 
of  the  High  School,  of  which  part  of  the  old  black  build- 
ing of  the  time  of  James  I.  was  still  standing — its  motto, 
“Nisi  Dominus,  frustra,”  everyw^here.  A half -holiday  had 
been  given,  that  the  boys  might  see  the  coffin  carried  by, — 
only  about  five-and-twenty  people  in  all,  Carlyle  thought — 
“ big-bellied  persons,  sympathetic  bailies,  relieving  each 
other  in  carrying  the  pall.”  The  boys  collected  in  a group, 
as  it  passed  within  the  railings,  uttered  a low  “ Ah  me ! Ah 
dear  ! ” or  the  like,  half  sigh  or  wail — “ and  he  is  gone  from 
us  then ! ” 

“The  sound  of  the  boys’  wail  is  in  my  ears  yet,”  said 
Carlyle. 

His  own  first  teacher  in  Latin,  an  old  clergyman.  He  had 


* It  was  Ids  Latin  grammar,  the  best  ever  composed,  which  my  Cam- 
berwell  tutor  threw  aside,  as  above  told,  for  a “ Scotch  thing.” 


OTTERBUMN. 


375 


indeed  been  sent  first  to  a schoolmaster  in  bis  own  village, 
“ the  joyfullest  little  mortal,  he  believed,  on  earth,”  learning 
his  declensions  out  of  an  eighteen-penny  book ! giving  his 
whole  might  and  heart  to  understand.  And  the  master  could 
teach  him  nothing,  merely  involved  him  day  by  day  in  misery 
of  non-understanding,  the  boy  getting  crushed  and  sick,  till 
(bis  mother  ?)  saw  it,  and  then  he  was  sent  to  this  clergyman, 
“a  perfect  sage,  on  the  humblest  scale.”  Seventy  pounds  a 
year,  his  income  at  first  entering  into  life  ; never  more  than  a 
hundred.  Six  daughters  and  two  sons  ; the  eldest  sister, 
Margaret,  “ a little  bit  lassie,” — then  in  a lower  voice,  “ the 
flower  of  all  the  flock  to  me.'’  Returning  from  her  little  visit- 
ations to  the  poor,  dressed  in  her  sober  prettiest,  “ the  most 
amiable  of  possible  objects.”  Not  beautiful  in  any  notable 
way  afterward,  but  comely  in  the  highest  degree.”  With 
dutiful  sweetness,  “ the  right  hand  of  her  father.”  Lived  to 
be  seven-and-twenty.  “ The  last  time  that  I wept  aloud  in 
the  world,  I think  was  at  her  death.” 

Riding  down  from  Craigenputtoch  to  Dumfries, — “ a mon- 
strous precipice  of  rocks  on  one  hand  of  you,  a merry  brook 
on  the  other  side.  ...  In  the  night  just  before  sunrise.” 

He  was  riding  down,  he  and  his  brother,  to  fetch  away  her 
body, — they  having  just  heard  of  her  death. 

A surveyor  (?),  or  some  scientific  and  evidently  superior 
kind  of  person,  had  been  doing  work  which  involved  staying- 
near,  or  in,  her  father’s  house,  and  they  got  engaged,  and 
then  he  broke  it  off.  “ They  said  that  was  the  beginning  of 
it.”  The  death  had  been  so  sudden,  and  so  unexpected,  that 
Mary’s  mother,  then  a girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen,  rushed  out  of 
the  house  and  up  to  the  cart,  shrieking,  rather  than  crying, 
“ Where’s  Peggy  ? ” 

I could  not  make  out,  quite,  how  the  two  parts  of  the  family 
were  separated,  so  that  his  sister  expected  them  to  bring  her 
back  living,  (or  even  well  ?).  Carlyle  was  so  much  affected,  and 
spoke  so  low,  that  I could  not  venture  to  press  him  on  detail. 


* “Rushed  at  the  cart,”  his  words.  Ending  with  his  deep  “Heigh 
dear,”  sigh.  “Sunt  lachrymse  rerum.” 


376 


PR^TElilTA. 


This  master  of  his  then,  the  father  of  Margaret,  was  en- 
tirely kind  and  wise  in  teaching  him — a Scotch  gentleman  of 
old  race  and  feeling,  an  Andrea  Ferrara  and  some  silver- 
mounted  canes  hanging  in  his  study,  last  remnants  of  the  old 
times. 

We  fell  away  upon  Mill’s  essay  on  the  substitution  of 
patriotism  for  religion. 

“ Actually  the  most  paltry  rag  of  ” — a chain  of  vituperative 
contempt  too  fast  to  note — “ it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  come  in 
with.  Among  my  acquaintance  I have  not  seen  a person  talk- 
ing of  a thing  he  so  little  understood.”  The  point  of  his  in- 
dignation was  Mill’s  supposing  that,  if  God  did  not  make 
everybody  “ happy,”  it  was  because  He  had  no  suJ3icient 
power,  “was  not  enough  supplied  with  the  article.”  Nothing 
makes  Carlyle  more  contemptuous  than  this  coveting  of 
“ happiness.” 

Perhaps  we  had  better  hear  what  Polissena  and  the  nun  of 
Florence  (“Christ’s  Folk,”  IV.)  have  to  say  about  happiness, 
of  their  sort ; and  consider  what  every  strong  heart  feels  in 
the  doing  of  any  noble  thing,  and  every  good  craftsman  in 
making  any  beautiful  one,  before  we  despise  any  innocent 
person  who  looks  for  happiness  in  this  world,  as  well  as  here- 
after. But  assuredly  the  strength  of  Scottish  character  has 
always  been  perfected  by  suffering  ; and  the  types  of  it  given 
by  Scott  in  Flora  Macivor,  Edith  Bellenden,  Mary  of  Avenel, 
and  Jeanie  Deans, — to  name  only  those  which  the  reader  will 
remember  without  effort, — are  chiefly  notable  in  the  way 
they  bear  sorrow ; as  the  whole  tone  of  Scottish  temper, 
ballad  poetry,  and  music,  which  no  other  school  has  ever 
been  able  to  imitate,  has  arisen  out  of  the  sad  associations 
which,  one  by  one,  have  gathered  round  every  loveliest  scene 
in  the  border  land.  Nor  is  there  anything  among  other 
beautiful  nations  to  approach  the  dignity  of  a true  Scots- 
woman’s face,  in  the  tried  perfectness  of  her  old  age. 

I have  seen  them  beautiful  in  the  same  way  earlier,  when 
they  had  passed  through  trial ; my  own  Joanie’s  face  owes 
the  calm  of  its  radiance  to  days  of  no  ordinary  sorrow — even 
before  she  came,  when  my  father  had  been  laid  to  his  rest 


OTTEliBURN. 


377 


under  Croydon  hills,  to  keep  her  faithful  watch  by  my 
mother’s  side,  while  I was  seeking  selfish  happiness  far  away 
in  work  which  to-day  has  come  to  nought.  What  I have  my- 
self since  owed  to  her, — life  certainly,  and  more  than  life,  for 
many  and  many  a year, — was  meant  to  have  been  told  long 
since,  had  I been  able  to  finish  this  book  in  the  time  I de- 
signed it.  What  Dr.  John  Brown  became  to  me,  is  partly 
shown  in  the  continual  references  to  his  sympathy  in  the 
letters  of  “ Hortus  Inclnsus  ; ” but  nothing  could  tell  the  loss 
to  me  in  his  death,  nor  the  grief  to  how  many  greater  souls 
than  mine,  that  had  been  possessed  in  patience  through  his 
love. 

I must  give  one  piece  more  of  his  own  letter,  with  the  fol- 
lowing fragment,  written  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  year,  and 
meant  to  have  been  carried  on  into  some  detail  of  the  impres- 
sions received  in  my  father’s  native  Edinburgh,  and  on  the 
northern  coast,  from  Queen’s  Ferry  round  by  Prestonpans  to 
Dunbar  and  Berwick. 

Dr.  Brown  goes  on  : — ‘‘  A year  ago,  I found  an  elderly 
countrywoman,  a widow,  waiting  for  me.  Kising  up,  she 
said,  ‘ D’ye  mind  me  ? ’ I looked  at  her,  but  could  get 
nothing  from  her  face ; but  the  voice  remained  in  my  ear,  as 
if  coming  from  the  ‘ fields  of  sleep,’  and  I said  by  a sort  of 
instinct,  ‘ Tibbie  Meek  ! ’ I had  not  seen  her  or  heard  her 
voice  for  more  than  forty  years.” 

The  reader  will  please  note  the  pure  Scotch  phrase  “ D’ye 
mind  me  ? ” and  compare  Meg  Merrilies’  use  of  it.  “ At 
length  she  guided  them  through  the  mazes  of  the  wood  to  a 
little  open  glade  of  about  a quarter  of  an  acre,  surrounded  by 
trees  and  bushes,  which  made  a wild  and  irregular  * boun- 
dary. Even  in  winter,  it  was  a sheltered  and  snugly  seques- 
tered spot ; but  when  arrayed  in  the  verdure  of  spring,  the 
earth  sending  forth  all  its  wild  flowers  ; the  shrubs  spreading 


* It  might  have  been  “ irregular,”  in  ground  just  cut  up  for  building 
leases,  in  South  Lambeth ; wild,  yet  as  regular  as  a disciplined  army, 
had  it  been  the  pines  of  Uri.  It  was  a waste  of  blossom,  a shade  of 
weeping  birches. 


378 


PR^TERITA. 


their  waste  of  blossom  around  it,  and  the  weeping  birches, 
which  towered  over  the  underwood,  drooping  their  long  and 
leafy  fibres  to  intercept  the  sun,  it  must  have  seemed  a place 
for  a youthful  poet  to  study  his  earliest  sonnet,  or  a pair  of 
lovers  to  exchange  their  first  mutual  avowal  of  affection. 
Apparently  it  now  awakened  very  different  recollections. 
Bertram’s  brow,  when  he  had  looked  round  the  spot,  became 
gloomy  and  embarrassed.  Meg,  after  muttering  to  herself, 
‘ This  is  the  very  spot,’  looked  at  him  with  a ghastly  side 
glance, — ‘D’ye  mind  it?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’  answered  Bertram,  ‘ imperfectly  I do.’ 

* Ay,’  pursued  his  guide,  ‘ on  this  very  spot  the  man  fell 
from  his  horse — I was  behind  that  bourtree  *-bush  at  the  very 
moment.  Now  will  I show  you  the  further  track — the  last 
time  ye  tramlled  it,  was  in  these  arms'  ” 

That  was  twenty  years  before,  for  Bertram’s  nurse  ; (com- 
pare Waverley’s  and  Morton’s  ; ) Dr.  Brown’s  Tibbie  ; my 
own  father’s  Mause ; my  Anne  ; all  women  of  the  same 
stamp  ; my  Saxon  mother  not  altogether  comprehending 
them  ; but  when  Dr.  John  Brown  first  saw  my  account  of  my 
mother  and  Anne  in  “ Fors,”  he  understood  both  of  them, 
and  wrote  back  to  me  of  “ those  two  blessed  women,”  as  he 
would  have  spoken  of  their  angels,  had  he  then  been  beside 
them,  looking  on  another  Face. 

But  my  reason  for  quoting  this  piece  of  “Guy  Mannering*  ” 
here  is  to  explain  to  the  reader  who  cares  to  know  it,  the 
difference  between  the  Scotch  “ mind  ” for  “ remember,”  and 
any  other  phrase  of  any  other  tongue,  applied  to  the  act  of 
memory. 

In  order  that  you  may,  in  the  Scottish  sense,  “ mind  ” any- 
thing, first  there  must  be  something  to  “ mind  ’’—and  then, 
the  “ mind  ” to  mind  it.  In  a thousand  miles  of  iron  railway, 
or  railway  train,  there  is  nothing  in  one  rod  or  bar  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  another.  You  can’t  “ mind  ” which  sleeper 
is  which.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  drive  from  Chillon 


* Elder,  in  modern  Scotch ; but  in  the  Douglas  glossary,  Bower^ 
bush. 


OTTKUBURN. 


379 


to  Vevay,  asleep,  can  you  “ mind  ” the  characteristics  of  the 
lake  of  Geneva.  Meg  could  not  have  expected  Bertram  to 
“ mind  ” at  what  corner  of  a street  in  Manchester — or  in  what 
ditch  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs — anything  had  passed  directly 
bearing  on  his  ov/n  fate.  She  expected  him  to  “ mind  ” only  a 
beautiful  scene,  of  perfect  individual  character,  and  slie  would 
not  have  expected  him  to  “ mind  ” even  that,  had  she  not 
known  he  had  persevering  sense  and  memorial  powers  of  very 
high  order. 

Now  it  is  the  peculiar  character  of  Scottish  as  distinct  from 
all  other  scenery  on  a small  scale  in  north  Europe,  to  have 
these  distinctively  “ mindable  ” features.  One  range  of  co- 
teau  by  a French  river  is  exactly  like  another ; one  turn  of 
glen  in  the  Black  Forest  is  only  the  last  turn  re-turned  ; one 
sweep  of  Jura  pasture  and  crag,  the  mere  echo  of  the  fields 
and  crags  of  ten  miles  away.  But  in  the  whole  course  of 
Tweed,  Teviot,  Gala,  Tay,  Forth,  and  Clyde,  there  is  perhaps 
scarcely  a bend  of  ravine,  or  nook  of  valley,  which  would  not 
be  recognizable  by  its  inhabitants  from  every  other.  And 
there  is  no  other  country  in  which  the  roots  of  memory  are  so 
entwined  with  the  beauty  of  nature,  instead  of  the  pride  of 
men  ; no  other  in  which  the  song  of  “ Auld  lang  syne  ” could 
have  been  written, — or  Lady  Nairn’s  ballad  of  “ The  Auld 
House.” 

I did  not  in  last  ‘‘Prseterita  ” enough  explain  the  reason  for 
my  seeking  homes  on  the  crests  of  Alps,  in  my  own  special 
study  of  cloud  and  sky  ; but  I have  only  known  too  late, 
within  this  last  month,  the  absolutely  literal  truth  of  Turner’s 
saying  that  the  most  beautiful  skies  in  the  world  known  to 
him  were  those  of  the  Isle  of  Thanet. 

In  a former  number  of  “ Prseterita  ” I have  told  how  my 
mother  kept  me  quiet  in  a boy’s  illness  by  telling  me  to  think 
of  Dash,  and  Dover ; and  among  the  early  drawings  left  for 
gift  to  Joanie  are  all  those  made — the  first  ever  made  from 
nature — at  Sevenoaks,  Tunbridge,  Canterbury,  and  Dover. 
One  of  the  poorest-nothings  of  these,  a mere  scrawl  in  pen 


380 


Pll^TERITA. 


and  ink,  of  cumulus  cloud  crossed  by  delicate  horizontal  bars 
on  the  horizon,  is  the  first  attempt  I ever  made  to  draw  a 
sky, — fifty-five  years  ago.  That  same  sky  I saw  again  over 
the  same  sea  horizon  at  sunset  only  five  weeks  ago.  And  three 
or  four  days  of  sunshine  following,  I saw,  to  my  amazement, 
that  the  skies  of  Turner  were  still  bright  above  the  foulness 
of  smoke-cloud  or  the  flight  of  plague-cloud  ; and  that  the 
forms  which,  in  the  pure  air  of  Kent  and  Picardy,  the  upper 
cirri  were  capable  of  assuming,  undisturbed  by  tornado,  un- 
mingled with  volcanic  exhalation  and  lifted  out  of  the  white 
crests  of  ever-renewed  tidal  waves,  were  infinite,  lovely  and 
marvellous  beyond  any  that  I had  ever  seen  from  moor  or 
alp  ; while  yet  on  the  horizon,  if  left  for  as  much  as  an  hour 
undefiled  by  fuel  of  fire,  there  was  the  azure  air  I had  known 
of  old,  alike  in  the  lowland  distance  and  on  the  Highland 
hills.  What  might  the  coasts  of  France  and  England  have 
been  now,  if  from  the  days  of  Bertha  in  Canterbury,  and  of 
Godefroy  in  Boulogne,  the  Christian  faith  had  been  held  by 
both  nations  in  peace,  in  this  pure  air  of  heaven  ? What 
might  the  hills  of  Cheviot  and  the  vale  of  Tweed  have  been 
now,  if  from  the  days  of  Cuthbert  in  Holy  Isle,  and  of  Edwin 
in  Edinburgh,  the  Crosses  of  St.  George  and  St.  Andrew  had 
been  borne  by  brethren  ; and  the  fiery  Percy  and  true  Doug- 
las laid  down  their  lives  only  for  their  people  ? 

Folkestone,  \Wi  October,  1887. 


KND  OF  VOL.  n. 


PRiETERTTA. 


VOLUME  III. 


. ,»  jf,nix,r  '.-4y.  * 1 


:;■  v*i-  f® 


5^- . -it 


; -:t- -i' 


^:- 

-V. 


i'ft 


i; 

- ’f 


. ■ -C  ' 


PR^TERITA, 


VOLUME  III, 


CH.iPTER  I. 

THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE, 

MONT  BLANC  REVISITED. 

( Written  at  Nyon  in  1845.) 

O Mount  beloved  mine  eyes  again 
Behold  the  twilight’s  sanguine  stain 
Along  thy  peaks  expire. 

0 Mount  beloved,  thy  frontier  waste 

1 seek  with  a religious  haste 

And  reverent  desire. 

Tiiey  meet  me,  ’midst  thy  shadows  cold, — 
Such  thoughts  as  holy  men  of  old 
Amid  the  desert  found  ; — 

Such  gladness,  as  in  Him  they  felt 
Who  with  them  through  the  darkness  dwelt, 
And  compassed  all  around. 

Ah,  happy,  if  His  will  were  so, 

To  give  me  manna  here  for  snow, 

And  by  the  torrent  side 
To  lead  me  as  He  leads  His  flocks 
Of  wild  deer  through  the  lonely  rocks 
In  peace,  unterrified  ; 

Since,  from  the  things  that  trustful  rest, 

The  partridge  on  her  purple  nest, 

The  marmot  in  his  den, 


384 


PRjETEBITA. 


God  wins  a worship  more  resigned, 
A purer  praise  than  He  can  find 
Upon  the  lips  of  men. 


Alas  for  man  ! who  hath  no  sense 
Of  gratefulness  nor  confidence, 

But  still  regrets  and  raves, 

Till  all  God’s  love  can  scarcely  win 
One  soul  from  taking  pride  in  sin, 
And  pleasure  over  graves. 


Yet  teach  me,  God,  a milder  thought, 

Lest  I,  of  all  Thy  blood  has  bought, 

Least  honorable  be  ; 

And  this,  that  leads  me  to  condemn, 

Be  rather  want  of  love  for  them 
Than  jealousy  for  Thee. 

These  verses,  above  noticed  (ii.,  276),  with  one  following 
sonnet,  as  the  last  rhymes  I attempted  in  any  seriousness, 
were  nevertheless  themselves  extremely  earnest,  and  express, 
with  more  boldness  and  simplicity  than  I feel  able  to  use 
now  with  my  readers,  the  real  temper  in  which  I began  the 
best  work  of  my  life.  mother  at  once  found  fault  with 
the  words  “sanguine  stain,”  as  painful,  and  untrue  of  the 
rose-color  on  snow  at  sunset ; but  the}"  had  their  meaning 
to  myself — the  too  common  Evangelical  phrase,  “ washed  in 
the  blood  of  Christ,”  being,  it  seemed  to  me,  if  true  at  all, 
true  of  the  earth  and  her  purest  snow,  as  well  as  of  her  pur- 
est creatures  ; and  the  claim  of  being  able  to  find  among  the 
rock-shadows  thoughts  such  as  hermits  of  old  found  in  the 
desert,  whether  it  seem  immodest  or  not,  was  wdiolly  true. 
Whatever  might  be  my  common  faults  or  weaknesses,  they 
w"ere  rebuked  among  the  hills  ; and  the  only  days  I can  look 
back  to  as,  according  to  the  powers  given  me,  rightly  or 
wdsely  in  entireness  spent,  have  been  in  sight  of  Mont  Blanc, 
Monte  Kosa,  or  the  Jungfrau. 

When  I was  most  strongly  under  this  influence,  I tried  to 
trace — and  I think  have  traced  rightly,  so  far  as  I was  then 
able — in  the  last  chapter  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  the  power  of 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


S85 


mountains  in  solemnizing  tlie  tbonghts  and  purifying  the 
hearts  of  the  greatest  nations  of  antiquity,  and  the  greatest 
teachers  of  Christian  faith.  But  I did  not  then  dwell  on 
what  I had  only  felt,  but  not  ascertained — the  destruction  of 
all  sensibility  of  this  high  order  in  the  populations  of  modern 
Europe,  first  by  the  fine  luxury  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
then  by  the  coarse  lusts  of  the  eighteenth  and  early  nine- 
teenth : destruction  so  total  that  religious  men  themselves 
became  incapable  of  education  by  any  natural  beauty  or 
nobleness  ; and  though  still  useful  to  others  by  their  minis- 
trations and  charities,  in  the  corruption  of  cities,  were  them- 
selves lost — or  even  degraded,  if  they  ever  went  up  into  the 
mountain  to  preach,  or  into  the  wilderness  to  pray. 

There  is  no  word,  in  the  fragment  of  diary  recording,  in 
last  “ Prseterita,”  our  brief  visit  to  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  of 
anything  we  saw  or  heard  there  that  made  impression  upon 
any  of  us.  Yet  a word  was  said,  of  significance  enough  to 
alter  the  course  of  religious  thought  in  me,  afterward  for- 
ever, 

I had  been  totally  disappointed  with  the  Monastery  itself, 
with  the  pass  of  approach  to  it,  with  the  mountains  round  it, 
and  with  the  monk  who  showed  us  through  it.  The  building 
was  meanly  designed  and  confusedly  grouped;  the  road  up 
to  it  nothing  like  so  terrific  as  most  roads  in  the  Alps  up 
to  anywhere  ; the  mountains  round  were  simplest  common- 
place of  Savoy  cliff,  with  no  peaks,  no  glaciers,  no  cascades, 
nor  even  any  slopes  of  pine  in  extent  of  majesty.  And  the 
monk  who  showed  us  through  the  corridors  had  no  cowl 
worth  the  wearing,  no  beard  worth  the  wagging,  no  expres- 
sion but  of  superciliousness  without  sagacit}^  and  an  ungraci- 
ously dull  manner,  showing  that  he  was  much  tired  of  the 
place,  more  of  himself,  and  altogether  of  my  father  and  me. 

Having  followed  him  for  a time  about  the  passages  of  the 
scattered  building,  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  show, — not 
a picture,  not  a statue,  not  a bit  of  old  glass,  or  well-wrought 
vestment  or  jewellery  ; nor  any  architectural  feature  in  the 
least  ingenious  or  lovely,  we  came  to  a pause  at  last  in  what 

I suppose  was  a type  of  a modern  Carthusian’s  cell,  wherein, 
35 


380 


PR.^TEPJTA, 


leaning  on  tlie  window-sill,  I said  something  in  the  style  of 
“Modern  Painters,”  about  the  effect  of  the  scene  outside 
upon  religious  minds.  Whereupon,  with  a curl  of  his  lip, 
“We  do  not  come  here,”  said  the  monk,  “to  look  at  the 
jnountains.”  Under  which  rebuke  I bent  my  head  silently, 
thinking  however  all  the  same,  “ What  then,  by  all  that’s 
stupid,  do  you  come  here  for  at  all  ? ” 

Which,  from  that  hour  to  this,  I have  not  conceived  ; nor, 
after  giving  my  best  attention  to  the  last  elaborate  account  of 
Carthusian  faith,  “La  Grande  Chartreuse,  par  un  Chartreux, 
Grenoble,  5,  Rue  Brocherie,  1884,”  am  I the  least  wiser.  I 
am  informed  by  that  author  that  his  fraternity  are  Eremite 
beyond  all  other  manner  of  men — that  they  delight  in  soli- 
tude, and  in  that  amiable  disposition  pass  lives  of  an  angelic 
tenor,  meditating  on  the  charms  of  the  next  world,  and  the 
vanities  of  this  one. 

I sympathize  with  them  in  their  love  of  quiet — to  the  utter- 
most ; but  do  not  hold  that  liking  to  be  the  least  pious  or  ami- 
able in  myself,  nor  understand  why  it  seems  so  to  them  ; or 
why  their  founder,  St.  Bruno — a man  of  the  Brightest  facul- 
ties in  teaching,  and  exhorting,  and  directing  ; also,  by  favor 
of  fortune,  made  a teacher  and  governor  in  the  exact  centre 
of  European  thought  and  order,  the  royal  city  of  Rheims, — 
should  think  it  right  to  leave  all  that  charge,  throw  down  his 
rod  of  rule,  his  crozier  of  protection,  and  come  away  to  enjoy 
meditation  on  the  next  world  by  himself. 

And  Avhy  meditation  among  the  Alps  ? He  and  his  disciples 
might  as  easily  have  avoided  the  rest  of  mankind  by  shutting 
themselves  into  a penitentiary  on  a plain,  or  in  whatever  kind 
country  they  chanced  to  be  born  in,  without  danger  to  them- 
selves of  being  buried  by  avalanches,  or  trouble  to  their  vene- 
rating visitors  in  coming  so  far  up  hill. 

Least  of  all  I understand  how  they  could  pass  their  days  of 
meditation  without  getting  interested  in  plants  and  stones, 
whether  they  would  or  no  ; nor  how  they  could  go  on  writing 
books  in  scarlet  and  gold — (for  they  were  great  scribes,  and 
had  a beautiful  library) — persisting  for  centuries  in  the  same 
patterns,  and  never  trying  to  draw  a bird  or  a leaf  rightly — 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


OQ^ 
OO  i 

until  the  days  when  books  were  illuminated  no  more  for  re- 
ligion, but  for  luxury,  and  tlie  amusement  of  sickly  fancy. 

Without  endeavoring-  to  explain  any  of  these  matters,  I will 
try  to  set  down  in  this  chapter,  merely  wliat  I have  found 
monks  or  nuns  like,  when  by  chance  I was  thrown  into  their 
company,  and  of  what  use  they  have  been  to  me. 

And  first  let  me  thank  my  dear  Miss  Edgeworth  for  the 
ideal  character  of  Sister  Frances,  in  her  story  of  Madame  de 
Eleury,  wliicli,  read  over  and  over  again  through  all  my  child- 
hood, fixed  in  me  the  knowledge  of  what  a good  sister  of 
charity  can  be,  and  for  the  most  part  is,  in  France  ; and,  of 
late,  I suppose  in  German}^  and  England. 

But  the  first  impression  from  life  of  the  secluded  Sister- 
lioods  * was  given  me  at  the  Convent  of  St.  Michael,  on  the 
summit  of  the  isolated  peak  of  lava  at  Le  Puy,  in  Auvergne, 
in  1840.  The  hostess-sister  who  showed  my  father  and  me 
what  it  was  permitted  to  see  of  chapel  or  interior  buiklings, 
was  a cheerful,  simple  creature,  pleased  with  us  at  once  for 
our  courtesy  to  her,  and  admiration  of  her  mountain  home, 
and  belief  in  her  sacred  life.  Protestant  visitors  being  then 
rare  in  Auvergne,  and  still  more,  reverent  and  gentle  ones, 
she  gave  her  pretty  curiosity  free  sway  ; and  inquired  eai'n- 
estly  of  us,  what  sort  of  creatures  we  were, — how  far  we  be- 
lieved in  God,  or  tried  to  be  good,  or  hoped  to  go  to  heaven  ? 
And  our  responses  under  this  catecliism  being  in  their  sum 
more  pleasing  to  her  than  she  had  expected,  and  manifesting, 
to  her  extreme  joy  and  wonder,  a Christian  spirit,  so  far  as 
she  could  judge,  in  harmony  with  all  she  had  been  herself 
taught,  she  proceeded  to  cross-examine  us  on  closer  points 
of  Divinity,  to  find  out,  if  she  could,  why  we  were,  or  unneces- 
sarily called  ourselves,  anything  else  than  Catholic  ? The 
one  flaw  in  our  faith  which  at  last  her  charity  fastened  on, 


* Of  the  Brotherhoods,  of  course  the  first  I knew  were  those  of  St. 
Bernard ; hut  tliese  were  not  secluded  for  their  own  spiritual  welfare, 
any  more  than  our  coastguardsmen  by  the  Goodwin  sands  ; and  are  to 
he  spoken  of  elsewhere,  and  in  quite  other  relations  to  the  modern 
world. 


388 


PR^iJTEJUTA. 


was  that  we  were  not  sure  of  our  salvation  in  Christ,  but  only 
hoped  to  get  into  heaven, — and  were  not  at  all,  by  that  dim 
hope,  relieved  from  terror  of  death,  when  at  any  time  it 
should  come.  Whereupon  she  launched  involuntarily  into  an 
eager  and  beautiful  little  sermon,  to  every  word  of  which  her 
own  perfectly  happy  and  innocent  face  gave  vivid  power,  and 
assurance  of  sincerity, — how  “ we  needed  to  be  sure  of  our 
safety  in  Christ,  and  that  everyone  might  be  so  who  came  to 
Him  and  pra3md  to  Him  ; and  that  all  good  Catholics  were 
as  sure  of  heaven  as  if  they  w'ere  already  there  and  so  dis- 
missed us  at  the  gate  with  true  pity,  and  beseeching  that  we 
would  prove  the  goodness  of  God,  and  be  in  peace.  Which 
exhortation  of  hers  I have  never  forgotten  ; only  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  no  entering  into  that  rest  of 
hers  but  by  living  on  the  top  of  some  St.  Michael’s  rock  too, 
which  it  did  not  seem  to  me  I was  meant  to  do,  by  any 
means. 

But  in  here  recording  the  impression  made  on  my  father 
and  me,  I must  refer  to  what  I said  above  of  our  common 
feeling  of  being,  both  of  us,  as  compared  with  my  mother, 
reprobate  and  worldly  characters,  despising  our  birthright 
like  Esau,  or  cast  out,  for  our  mocking  ways,  like  Ishmael. 
For  my  father  never  ventured  to  give  me  a religious  lesson  ; 
and  though  he  went  to  church  with  a resigned  countenance, 
I knew  very  well  that  he  liked  going  just  as  little  as  I 
did. 

The  second  and  fourth  summers  after  that,  1842  and  1844, 
were  spent  happily  and  quietlj"  in  the  Prieure  * of  Chamouni, 
and  there  of  course  we  all  of  us  became  acquainted  with  the 
cure,  and  saw  the  entire  manner  of  life  in  a purely  Catholic 
village  and  valley, — recognizing-  it,  I hope,  all  of  us,  in  our 
hearts,  to  be  quite  as  Christian  as  anything  we  knew  of,  and 
much  pleasanter  and  prettier  than  the  Sundaj^  services  in 
England,  which  exhaust  the  little  faith  we  have  left. 

Wordsworth,  in  his  continental  notices  of  peasant  Catholi- 


* Not  in  the  Priory  itself,  hut  the  Hotel  de  I’Unioii.  The  whole  vil- 
lage is  called  “The  Priory.” 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


3S9 


cism,  recognizes,  also  at  Cliamouni,  very  gracefully  this  ex- 
ternal prettiness — 

“ They,  too,  who  send  so  far  a holy  gleam, 

As  they  the  Church  engird  with  motion  slow, 

A product  of  that  awf  nl  mountain  seem 
Poured  from  its  vaults  of  everlasting  snow. 

Not  virgin  lilies  marshalled  in  bright  row, 

Not  swans  descending  witli  the  stealthy  tide, 

A livelier  sisterly  resemblance  show 

Than  the  fair  forms  that  in  long  order  glide 
Bear  to  the  glacier  band,  those  shapes  aloft  descried.” 

But  on  me,  the  deeper  impression  was  of  a continuous  and 
serene  hold  of  their  happy  faith  on  the  life  alike  of  Sunday 
and  Monday,  and  through  every  hour  and  circumstance  of 
youth  and  age  ; which  yet  abides  in  all  the  mountain  Catho- 
lic districts  of  Savoy,  the  Waldstetten,  and  the  Tyrol,  to  their 
perpetual  honor  and  peace  ; and  this  without  controversy  or 
malice  toward  the  holders  of  other  beliefs. 

Next,  in  1845,  I saw  in  Florence,  as  above  told,  the  inte- 
rior economy  of  the  monasteries  at  Santa  Maria  Novella, — in 
the  Franciscan  cloisters  of  Fesole,  and  in  Fra  Angelico’s,  both 
at  San  Domenico  and  San  Marco.  Which,  in  whatever  they 
retained  of  their  old  thoughts  and  ways,  were  wholly  beauti- 
ful ; and  the  monks  with  whom  I had  any  casual  intercourse^ 
always  kind,  innocently  eager  in  sympathy  with  my  own 
work,  and  totally  above  men  of  the  “ world  ” in  general  un- 
derstanding, courtesy,  and  moral  sense. 

Men  of  the  outer  world,  I mean,  of  course, — official  and 
commercial.  Afterward  at  Venice  I had  a very  dear,  and  not 
at  all  monastic,  friend,  Rawdon  Brown  ; but  hh  society  were 
the  Venetians  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  Counts  Minis- 
chalchi,  at  Verona,  and  Borromeo,  at  Milan,  would  have 
been  endlessly  kind  and  helpful  to  me  ; but  I never  could 
learn  Italian  enough  to  speak  to  them.  Whereas,  with  my 
monkish  friends,  at  the  Armenian  isle  of  Venice,  and  in  any 
churches  or  cloisters  through  North  Ital}’’,  where  I wanted  a 
niche  to  be  quiet  in,  and  chiefiy  at  last  in  Assisi,  I got  on 


390 


PRMTERITA, 


with  any  broken  French  or  Italian  I could  stutter,  without 
minding  ; and  was  always  happy. 

But  the  more  I loved  or  envied  the  monks,  and  the  more  I 
despised  the  modern  commercial  and  fashionable  barbaric 
tribes,  the  more  acutely  also  I felt  that  the  Catholic  political 
hierarchies,  and  isolated  remnants  of  celestial  enthusiasm, 
were  hopelessly  at  fault  in  their  dealing  with  these  adver- 
saries ; having  also  elements  of  corruption  in  themselves, 
which  justly  brought  on  them  the  fierce  hostility  of  men  like 
Garibaldi  in  Italy,  and  of  the  honest  and  open-hearted  liberal 
leaders  in  other  countries.  Thus,  irrespectively  of  all  imme- 
diate contest  or  progress,  I saw  in  the  steady  course  of  the 
historical  reading  by  which  I prepared  mj-self  to  write  tlis 
“Stones  of  Venice,”  that,  alike  in  the  world  and  the  Church, 
the  hearts  of  men  were  led  astray  by  the  same  dreams  and 
desires  ; and  whether  in  seeking  for  Divine  perfection,  or 
earthl}^  pleasure,  were  alike  disobeying  the  laws  of  God  when 
the}^  withdrew  from  their  direct  and  familiar  duties,  and 
ceased,  whether  in  ascetic  or  self-indulgent  lives,  to  honor 
and  love  their  neighbor  as  themselves. 

AVhile  these  convictions  prevented  me  from  being  ever  led 
into  acceptance  of  Catholic  teaching  by  my  reverence  for  the 
Catholic  art  of  the  great  ages, — and  the  less,  because  the 
Catholic  art  of  these  small  ages  can  say  but  little  for  itself, — 
I grew  also  daily  more  sure  that  the  peace  of  God  rested  on 
all  the  dutiful  and  kindly  hearts  of  the  laborious  poor  ; and 
that  the  only  constant  form  of  pure  religion  was  in  useful 
work,  faithful  love,  and  stintless  charity. 

In  wdiich  pure  religion  neither  St.  Bruno  himself  nor  any 
of  his  true  disciples  failed  : and  I perceive  it  finally  notable 
of  them,  that,  poor  by  a resolute  choice  of  a life  of  hardship, 
without  any  sentimental  or  fallacious  glorifying  of  “Holy 
poverty,”  as  if  God  had  never  promised  full  garners  for  a 
blessing  ; and  always  choosing  men  of  high  intellectual  power 
for  the  heads  of  their  community,  they  have  had  more  di- 
rectly wholesome  influence  on  the  outer  world  than  any  other 
order  of  monks  so  narrow  in  number,  and  restricted  in  habi- 
tation. For  while  the  Franciscan  and  Cistercian  monks  be- 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


391 


came  everywhere  a constant  element  in  European  society,  the 
Carthusians,  in  their  active  sincerity,  remained,  in  groups  of 
not  more  than  from  twelve  to  twenty  monks  in  any  single 
monastery,  the  tenants  of  a few  wild  valleys  of  the  north- 
western Alps ; the  subsequent  overflowing  of  their  brother- 
hood into  the  Certosas  of  the  Lombard  plains  being  mere 
waste  and  wreck  of  them  ; and  the  great  Certosa  of  Pavia 
one  of  the  worst  shames  of  Italy,  associated  with  the  accursed 
reign  of  Galeazzo  Visconti.  But  in  their  strength,  from  the 
foundation  of  the  order,  at  the  close  of  the  eleventh  century, 
to  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth,  they  reared  in  their  moun- 
tain fastnesses,  and  sent  out  to  minister  to  the  world,  a suc- 
cession of  men  of  immense  mental  grasp,  and  serenely  author- 
itative innocence  ; among  whom  our  own  Hugo  of  Lincoln, 
in  his  relations  with  Henry  I.  and  Goeur  de  Lion,  is  to  my 
mind  the  most  beautiful  sacerdotal  figure  known  to  me  in 
history.  The  great  Pontiffs  have  a power  which  in  its  strength 
can  scarce!}^  be  used  without  cruelty,  nor  in  its  scope  without 
error  ; the  great  Saints  are  always  in  some  degree  incredible 
or  unintelligible  ; but  Hugo’s  power  is  in  his  own  personal 
courage  and  justice  only  ; and  his  sanctity  as  clear,  frank,  and 
playful  as  the  waves  of  his  own  Chartreuse  well.'^ 

I must  not  let  myself  be  led  aside  from  my  own  memories 
into  any  attempt  to  trace  the  effect  on  Turner’s  mind  of  his 
visit  to  the  Chartreuse,  rendered  as  it  is  in  the  three  subjects 
of  the  “Liber  Studiorum,” — from  the  Chartreuse  itself,  from 
Holy  Island,  and  Dumblane  Abbey.  The  strength  of  it  was 
cliecked  by  his  love  and  awe  of  the  sea,  and  sailor  heroism, 
and  confused  by  his  classical  thought  and  passion  ; but  in  my 
own  life,  the  fading  away  of  the  nobler  feelings  in  which  I 
had  worked  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  however  much  my 
own  fault,  was  yet  complicated  with  the  inevitable  discovery 
of  the  falseness  of  the  religious  doctrines  in  which  I had  been 
educated. 

The  events  of  the  ten  years  1850-1860,  for  the  most  part 


* The  original  building  was  grouped  round  a spring  in  the  rock, 
from  which  a runlet  was  directed  through  every  cell. 


392 


FRjETERITA, 


wasted  in  useless  work,  must  be  arranged  first  in  their  main- 
order,  before  I can  give  clear  account  of  anything  that  hap- 
pened in  them.  But  this  breaking  down  of  my  Puritan  faith, 
being  the  matter  probably  most  important  to  many  readers 
of  ni}^  later  books,  shall  be  traced  in  this  chapter  to  the  sor- 
rowful end.  Note  first  the  main  facts  of  the  successive  years 
of  the  decade. 

1851.  Turner  dies,  while  I am  at  first  main  work  in  Ven- 
ice, for  “ The  Stones  of  Venice.” 

1852.  Final  work  in  Venice  for  “ Stones  of  Venice.” 
Book  finished  that  winter.  Six  hundred  quarto  pages  of 
notes  for  it,  fairly  and  closely  written,  now  useless.  Draw- 
ings as  many — of  a sort  ; useless  too. 

1853.  Henry  Acland  in  Glenfinlas  with  me.  Drawing  of 
gneiss  rock  made  ; now  in  the  school  at  Oxford.  Two 
months’  work  in  what  fair  weather  could  be  gleaned  out  of 
that  time. 

1854.  With  my  father  and  mother  at  Vevay  and  Thun. 
I take  up  the  history  of  Switzerland,  and  propose  to  engrave 
a series  of  drawings  of  the  following  Swiss  towns  : Geneva, 
Fribourg,  Basle,  Thun,  Baden,  and  Schaffhausen.  I proceed 
to  make  drawdugs  for  this  work,  of  w’hich  the  first  attempted 
(of  Thun)  takes  up  the  whole  of  the  summer,  and  is  only  half 
done  then.  Definition  of  Poetry,  for  “ Modern  Painters,” 
written  at  Vevay,  looking  across  lake  to  Cbillon.  It  lepes 
out  rhythm,  which  I now'  consider  a defect  in  said  definition  ; 
otherwise  good, — “ The  arrangement,  by  imagination,  of  noble 
motive  for  noble  emotion.”  I forget  the  exact  words,  but 
these  others  will  do  as  well,  perhaps  better. 

1855.  Notes  on  Koyal  Academy  begun.  The  spring  is  so 
cold  that  the  hawthorns  are  only  in  bud  on  5th  of  June.  I get 
cough,  which  lasts  for  two  months,  till  I go  down  to  Tun- 
bridge Wells  to  my  doctor  cousin,  William  Richardson,  wdio 
puts  me  to  bed,  gives  me  some  syrup,  cures  me  in  three  days, 
and  calls  me  a fool  for  not  coming  to  him  before,  with  some 
rather  angry  warnings  that  I had  better  not  keep  a cough  for 
two  months  again.  Third  volume  of  “Modern  Painters”  got 
done  with,  somehow,  but  didn’t  know  w'hat  to  call  it,  so  called 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


393 


it  “Of  Many  Things.”  But  none  of  these  were  done  with,” 
as  I found  afterward,  to  my  cost. 

1856.  With  rny  father  and  mother  to  Geneva  and  Fri- 
bourg. Two  drawings  at  Fribourg  took  up  the  working 
summer.  My  father  begins  to  tire  of  the  proposed  work  on 
Swiss  towns,  and  to  inquire  whether  the  rest  of  “ Modern 
Painters  ” will  ever  be  done. 

1857.  My  mother  w'ants  me  to  see  the  Bay  of  Cromarty 
and  the  Falls  of  Kilmorock.  I consent  sulkily  to  be  taken  to 
Scotland  with  that  object.  Papa  and  mamma,  wistfully 
watching  the  effect  on  my  mind,  show  their  Scotland  to  me. 
I see,  on  my  own  quest,  Craig-Ellachie,  and  the  Lachin-y- 
Gair  forests,  and  finally  reach  the  Bay  of  Cromarty  and  Falls 
of  Kilmorock,  doubtless  now  the  extreme  point  of  my  north- 
ern discoveries  on  the  round  earth.^,  I admit,  generously,  the 
Bay  of  Cromarty  and  the  Falls  to  be  worth  coming  all  that 
way  to  see  ; but  beg  papa  and  mamma  to  observe  that  it  is 
twenty  miles’  walk,  in  bogs,  to  the  top  of  Ben  Wevis,  that  the 
town  of  Dingwall  is  not  like  Milan  or  Venice, — and  that  I 
think  we  have  seen  enough  of  Scotland. 

1858.  Accordingly,  after  arranging,  mounting,  framing, 
and  cabinetting,  with  good  help  from  Kichard  Williams,  of 
Messrs.  Foord’s,  the  Turner  drawings  now  in  the  catacombs 
of  the  National  Gallery,  I determine  to  add  two  more  Swiss 
towns  to  my  list,  namely,  Rheinfelden  and  Bellinzona,  in  il- 
lustration of  Turner’s  sketches  at  those  places  ; and  get  re- 
luctant leave  from  my  father  to  take  Couttet  again,  and  have 
all  my  own  way.  I spent  the  spring  at  Rheinfelden,  and  the 
summer  at  Bellinzona.  But  Couttet  being  of  opinion  that 
these  town  views  will  come  to  no  good,  and  that  the  time  I 
spend  on  the  roof  of  “ cette  baraque  ” at  Bellinzona  is  wholly 
wasted,  I give  the  town  views  all  up,  and  take  to  Vandyke 
and  Paul  Veronese  again  in  the  gallery  of  Turin.  But,  on 
returning  home,  my  father  is  not  satisfied  with  my  studies 
from  those  masters,  and  piteously  asks  for  the  end  of  “ Mod- 
ern Painters,”  saying  “ he  will  be  dead  before  it  is  done.” 
Much  ashamed  of  myself,  I promise  him  to  do  mj^  best  on  it 
without  farther  subterfuge. 


394 


PRMTERITA. 


1859.  Hard  writing  and  drawing  to  that  end.  Fourtli  vol- 
ume got  done.  My  father  thinks,  himself,  I ought  to  see  Ber- 
lin, Dresden,  Munich,  and  Nuremberg,  before  the  book  is 
finished.  He  and  my  mother  take  their  last  continental  jour- 
ney with  me  to  those  places.  I have  my  last  happy  walk  with 
my  father  at  Konigstein. 

1860.  I work  hard  all  the  winter  and  early  spring — finish 
the  book,  in  a sort ; my  father  well  pleased  with  the  last  chap- 
ter, and  the  engraved  drawings  from  Nuremberg  and  Rhein- 
felden.  On  the  strength  of  this  piece  of  filial  duty,  I am 
cruel  enough  to  go  away  to  St.  Martin’s  again,  b^^  myself,  to 
meditate  on  what  is  to  be  done  next.  Thence  I go  up  to 
Chamouni — where  a new  epoch  of  life  and  death  begins. 

And  here  I must  trace,  as  simply  and  rapidly  as  may  be, 
the  story  of  my  relations  with  the  Working  Men’s  College. 

I knew  of  its  masters  only  the  Principal,  F.  D.  Maurice, 
and  my  own  friend  Rossetti.  It  is  to  be  remembered  of 
Rossetti,  with  loving  honor,  that  he  was  the  only  one  of  our 
modern  painters  who  taught  disciples  for  love  of  them.  He 
was  really  not  an  Englishman,  but  a great  Italian  tormented 
in  the  Inferno  of  London  ; doing  the  best  he  could,  and  teach- 
ing the  best  he  could  ; but  the  “ could  ” shortened  by  the 
strength  of  his  animal  passions,  without  any  trained  control, 
or  guiding  faith.  Of  him,  more  hereafter. 

I loved  Frederick  Maurice,  as  everyone  did  who  came  near 
him  ; and  have  no  doubt  he  did  all  that  was  in  him  to  do  of 
good  in  his  day.  Which  could  by  no  means  be  said  either 
of  Rossetti  or  of  me  : but  Maurice  was  by  nature  puzzle- 
headed,  and,  though  in  a beautiful  manner,  ?/?ron^-headed  ; 
while  his  clear  conscience  and  keen  affections  made  him  ego- 
tistic, and  in  his  Bible-reading,  as  insolent  as  any  infidel  of 
them  all.  I onl^^’  went  once  to  a Bible-lesson  of  his  ; and  the 
meeting  was  significant,  and  conclusive. 

The  subject  of  lesson,  Jael’s  slaying  of  Sisera.  Concerning 
which,  Maurice,  taking  an  enlightened  modern  view  of  what 
Avas  fit  and  not,  discoursed  in  passionate  indignation  ; and 
warned  his  class,  in  the  most  positive  and  solemn  manner, 
that  such  dreadful  deeds  could  only  have  been  done  in  cold 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 


395 


blood  in  the  Dark  Biblical  ages ; and  that  no  religious  and 
patriotic  Englishwoman  ought  ever  to  think  of  imitating  Jael 
by  nailing  a Russian’s  or  Prussian’s  skull  to  the  ground, — es- 
j^ecially  after  giving  him  butter  in  a lordly  dish.  At  the  close 
of  the  instruction,  through  which  I srite  silent,  I ventured  to 
inquire,  why  then  had  Deborah  the  prophetess  declared  of 
Jael,  “ Blessed  above  women  shall  the  wife  of  Heber  the 
Kenite  be  ? ” On  which  Maurice,  w'itii  startled  and  flashing 
eyes,  burst  into  partly  scornful,  partly  alarmed,  denunciation 
of  Deborah  the  prophetess,  as  a mere  blazing  Amazon  ; and 
of  her  Song  as  a merely  rhythmic  storm  of  battle-rage,  no 
more  to  be  listened  to  with  edification  or  faith  than  the  Nor- 
man’s sword-song  at  the  battle  of  Hastings. 

Whereupon  there  remained  nothing  for  me, — to  whom  the 
Song  of  Deborah  was  as  sacred  as  the  Magnificat — but  total 
collapse  in  sorrow  and  astonishment  ; the  eyes  of  all  the  class 
being  also  bent  on  me  in  amazed  reprobation  of  my  be- 
nighted views,  and  unchristian  sentiments.  And  I got  away 
how^  I could,  and  never  went  back. 

That  being  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I had  fairly  met 
the  lifted  head  of  Earnest  and  Religious  Infidelity — in  a man 
neither  vain  nor  ambitious,  but  instinctively  and  innocently 
trusting  his  own  amiable  feelings  as  the  final  interpreters  of 
all  the  possible  feelings  of  men  and  angels,  all  the  songs  of 
the  prophets,  and  all  the  ways  of  God. 

It  foliow'ed,  of  course,  logically  and  necessarity,  that  every 
one  of  Maurice’s  disciples  also  took  what  views  he  chose  of 
the  songs  of  the  prophets, — or  wrote  songs  of  his  owm,  more 
adapted  to  the  princqfies  of  the  College,  and  the  ethics  of 
London.  Maurice,  in  all  his  addresses  to  us,  dwelt  mainly 
on  the  simple  function  of  a college  as  a collection  or  collation 
of  friendly  persons, — not  in  the  least  as  a place  in  which  such 
and  such  things  were  to  be  taught,  and  others  denied  ; such 
and  such  conduct  vowed,  and  other  such  and  such  abjured. 
So  the  College  went  on, — collecting,  carpentering,  sketching, 
Bible  criticising,  etc.,  virtually  with  no  head  ; but  only  a clasp 
to  the  strap  of  its  waist,  and  as  many  heads  as  it  had  stu- 
dents. The  leaven  of  its  affectionate  temper  has  gone  far  ; 


396 


PR^TERITA. 


but  how  far  also  the  leaven  of  its  pride,  and  defiance  of 
everything  above  it,  nobody  quite  laiows.  I took  two  special 
pupils  out  of  its  ranks,  to  carry  them  forward  all  I could. 
One  I chose  ; the  other  chose  me — or  rather,  chose  my 
mother's  maid  Hannah  ; for  love  of  whom  he  came  to  the  Col- 
lege, learned  drawing  there  under  Eossetti  and  me, — and  be- 
came eventually  Mr.  George  Allen,  of  Sunnyside ; who,  I 
hope,  still  looks  back  to  his  having  been  an  entirely  honest 
and  perfect  working  joiner  as  the  foundation  of  his  prosper- 
ity in  life.  The  other  student  I chose  myself,  a carpenter  of 
equal  skill  and  great  fineness  of  faculty ; but  his  pride,  wil- 
fulness, and  certain  angular  narrownesses  of  nature,  kept  him 
down, — together  with  the  deadly  influence  of  London  itself, 
and  of  working-men’s  clubs,  as  well  as  colleges.  And  finally, 
in  this  case,  and  many  more,  I have  very  clearly  ascertained 
that  the  only  proper  school  for  workmen  is  of  the  work  their 
fathers  bred  them  to,  under  masters  able  to  do  better  than 
any  of  their  men,  and  with  common  principles  of  honesty  and 
the  fear  of  God,  to  guide  the  firm. 

Somewhat  before  the  date  of  my  farewell  to  Maurician  free- 
thinking,  I had  come  into  still  more  definite  collision  with 
the  Puritan  dogmata  which  forbid  thinking  at  all,  in  a seance 
to  which  I was  invited,  shyly,  by  my  friend,  Macdonald, — 
fashionable  seance  of  evangelical  doctrine,  at  the  Earl  of  Du- 
cie’s  ; presided  over  by  Mr.  Molyneux,  then  a divine  of  celeb- 
rity in  that  sect  ; who  sate  with  one  leg  over  his  other  knee  in 
the  attitude  always  given  to  Herod  at  the  massacre  of  the  In- 
nocents in  mediaeval  sculpture  ; and  discoursed  in  tones  of 
consummate  assurance  and  satisfaction,  and  to  the  entire 
comfort  and  consent  of  his  Belgravian  audience,  on  the  beau- 
tiful parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  Which,  or  how  many,  of 
his  hearers  he  meant  to  describe  as  having  personally  lived 
on  husks,  and  devoured  their  fathers’  property,  did  not,  of 
course,  appear ; but  that  something  of  the  sort  was  necessary 
to  the  completeness  of  the  joy  in  heaven  over  them,  now  in 
Belgrave  Square,  at  the  feet — or  one  foot — of  Mr.  Molyneux, 
could  not  be  questioned. 

Waiting  my  time,  till  the  raptures  of  the  converted  com- 


THE  QRANDE  CHART  REUSE. 


397 


pany  had  begun  to  flag*  a little,  I ventured,  from  a back  seat, 
to  enquire  of  Mr.  Molyneux  what  we  were  to  learn  from  the 
example  of  the  other  son,  not  prodigal,  who  was,  his  father 
said  of  him,  “ ever  with  me,  and  all  that  I have,  thine  ? ” A 
sudden  horror,  and  unanimous  feeling  of  the  serpent  having, 
somehow,  got  over  the  wall  into  their  Garden  of  Eden,  fell  on 
the  whole  company  ; and  some  of  them,  I thought,  looked  at 
the  candles,  as  if  they  expected  them  to  burn  blue.  After  a 
pause  of  a minute,  gathering  himself  into  an  expression  of 
pity  and  indulgence,  withholding  latent  thunder,  Mr.  Moly- 
neux explained  to  me  that  the  home-staying  son  was  merel}^  a 
picturesque  figure  introduced  to  fill  the  background  of  the 
parable  agreeably,  and  contained  no  instruction  or  example 
for  the  well-disposed  scriptural  student,  but  on  the  contraiy, 
rather  a snare  for  the  unwary,  and  a temptation  to  self-right- 
eousness,— which  was,  of  all  sins,  the  most  offensive  to  God. 

Under  the  fulmination  of  which  answer  I retired,  as  from 
Maurice’s,  from  the  seance  in  silence  ; nor  ever  attended  an- 
other of  the  kind  from  that  day  to  this. 

But  neither  the  Puritanism  of  Belgravia,  nor  Liberalism  of 
Red  Lion  Square,  interested,  or  offended,  me,  otherwise  than 
as  the  grotesque  conditions  of  variously  typhoid  or  smoke- 
dried  London  life.  To  mj^  old  Scotch  shepherd  Puritanism, 
and  the  correspondent  forms  of  noble  French  Protestantism, 
I never  for  an  instant  failed  in  dutiful  affection  and  honoi*. 
From  John  Bunyan  and  Isaac  Ambrose,  I had  received  the  re- 
ligion by  which  I still  myself  lived,  as  far  as  I had  spiritual 
life  at  all  ; and  I had  again  and  again  proof  enough  of  its 
truth,  v/ithiu  limits,  to  have  served  me  for  all  my  own  need, 
either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  But  my  ordained  business, 
and  mental  gifts,  were  outside  of  those  limits.  I saw,  as 
clearly  as  I saw  tlie  sky  and  its  stars,  that  music  in  Scotland 
was  not  to  be  studied  under  a Free  Church  precentor,  nor  in- 
deed under  any  disciples  of  John  Knox,  but  of  Signior  David  ; 
that,  similarl3%  painting  in  England  was  not  to  be  admired  in 
the  illuminations  of  Watts’  hymns  ; nor  architecture  in  the 
design  of  Mr.  Irons’  chapel  in  the  Grove.  And  here  I must 
take  up  a thread  of  my  mental  history,  as  yet  unfastened. 


398 


Pn^ETERITA. 


I have  spoken  several  times  of  the  effect  given  cheaply  to 
my  drawings  of  architecture  by  dexterous  dots  and  fiourishes, 
doing  duty  for  ornament.  Already,  in  1845,  I had  begun  to 
distinguish  Corinthian  from  Norman  capitals,  and  in  1848, 
drew  the  niches  and  sculpture  of  French  Gothic  with  preci- 
sion and  patience.  But  I had  never  cared  for  ornamental  de- 
sign until  in  1850  or  ’51  I chanced,  at  a bookseller’s  in  a back 
alley,  on  a little  fourteenth  century  “Hours  of  the  Virgin,” 
not  of  refined  work,  but  extremely  rich,  grotesque,  and  full 
of  pure  color. 

The  new  worlds  which  every  leaf  of  this  book  opened  to 
me,  and  the  joy  I had,  counting  their  letters  and  unravelling 
their  arabesques  as  if  they  had  all  been  of  beaten  gold, — as 
many  of  them  indeed  were, — cannot  be  told,  any  more  than — 
everything  else,  of  good,  that  I wanted  to  tell.  Not  that  the 
worlds  thus  opening  were  themselves  new,  but  only  the  pos- 
session of  any  part  in  them  ; for  long  and  long  ago  I had  gazed 
at  the  illuminated  missals  in  noblemen's  houses  (see  above,  p. 
16,  vol.  i.),  with  a wonder  and  sympathy  deeper  than  I can  give 
now  ; my  love  of  toil,  and  of  treasure,  alike  getting  their  thirst 
gratified  in  them.  For  again  and  again  I must  repeat  it,  my 
nature  is  a worker’s  and  a miser’s  ; and  I rejoiced,  and  rejoice 
still,  in  the  mere  quantity  of  chiselling  in  marble,  and  stitches 
in  embroidery  ; and  \vas  never  tired  of  numbering  sacks  of  gold 
and  caskets  of  jewels  in  the  “ Arabian  Nights ; ” and  though 
I am  generous  too,  and  love  giving,  j^et  my  notion  of  charity 
is  not  at  all  dividing  my  last  crust  with  a beggar,  but  riding 
through  a town  like  a Commander  of  the  Faithful,  having  anj'' 
quantity  of  sequins  and  ducats  in  saddle-bags  (where  cavalr}^ 
officers  have  holsters  for  their  pistols),  and  throwing  them 
round  in  radiant  showers  and  hailing  handfuls  ; with  more 
bags  to  brace  on  'when  those  'v^"ere  empty. 

But  now  that  I had  a missal  of  my  owm,  and  could  touch  its 
leaves  and  turn,  and  even  here  and  there  understand  the 
Latin  of  it,  no  girl  of  seven  years  old  with  a new  doll  is 
prouder  or  happier  ; but  the  feeling  was  something  between 
the  girl’s  with  her  doll,  and  Aladdin’s  in  a new  Spirit-slave  to 
build  palaces  for  him  with  jewel  windows.  For  truly  a well- 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUGE. 


399 


illuminated  missal  is  a fairy  cathedral  full  of  painted  windows, 
bound  together  to  carry  in  one’s  pocket,  with  the  music  and 
the  blessing  of  all  its  prayers  besides. 

xlnd  tlien  followed,  of  course,  the  discovery  that  all  beauti- 
ful prayers  were  Catholic, — all  wise  interpretations  of  the  Bible 
Catholic  ; — and  every  manner  of  Protestant  written  services 
whatsoever  either  insolently  altered  corruptions,  or  washed- 
out  and  ground-down  rags  and  debris  of  the  great  Catholic 
collects,  litanies,  and  songs  of  praise. 

“But  why  did  not  you  become  a Catholic  at  once,  then?” 

It  might  as  well  be  asked.  Why  did  not  I become  a fire- 
worshipper  ? I could  become  nothing  but  wdiat  I was,  or  was 
growing  into.  I no  more  believed  in  the  living  Pope  than  I 
did  in  the  living  Khan  of  Tartary.  I saw  indeed  that  twelfth 
century  psalters  were  lovely  and  right,  and  that  presbyterian 
prayers  against  time,  by  people  who  never  expected  to  be  any 
the  better  for  them,  were  unlovely  and  wrong.  But  I had 
never  read  the  Koran,  nor  Confucius,  nor  Plato,  nor  Hesiod, 
and  was  only  just  beginning  to  understand  my  Virgil  and 
Horace.  How  I ever  came  to  understand  them  is  a new  story, 
which  must  be  for  next  chapter  ; meantime  let  me  finish  the 
confessions  of  this  one  in  the  tale  of  my  final  apostasy  from 
Puritan  doctrine. 

The  most  stern  practical  precept  of  that  doctrine  still  hold- 
iuo*  me, — it  is  curiouslv  inbound  with  all  the  rest, — was  the 
Sabbath  keeping  ; the  idea  that  one  w^as  not  to  seek  one’s  own 
pleasure  on  Sunda3%  nor  to  do  anything  useful.  Gradually,  in 
honest  Bible  reading,  I saw  that  Christ’s  first  article  of  teach- 
ing was  to  unbind  the  }mke  of  the  Sabbath,  while,  us  a Jew, 
He  yet  obeyed  the  Mosaic  law  concerning  it  ; but  that  St. 
Paul  had  carefully  abolished  it  altogether,  and  that  the  rejoic- 
ing, in  memory  of  the  Besurrection,  on  the  Day  of  the  Sun, 
the  first  day  of  the  week,  was  only  by  misunderstanding,  and 
much  wilful  obstinacy,  confused  with  the  Sabbath  of  the 
Jew^ 

Nevertheless,  the  great  passages  in  the  Old  Testament  re- 
garding its  observance  held  their  power  over  me,  nor  have 
ceased  to  do  so  ; but  the  inveterate  habit  of  being  unhappy 


400 


PRJETERITA, 


all  Sunday  did  not  in  any  way  fulfil  the  order  to  call  tlie  Sab- 
bath a delight. 

I have  registered  the  year  1858  as  the  next,  after  1845,  in 
which  I had  complete  guidance  of  myself.  Couttet  met  me 
at  Basle,  and  I went  on  to  Rheinfelden  with  great  joy,  and 
stayed  to  draw  town  and  bridges  completely  (two  of  the 
studies  are  engraved  in  “ Modern  Painters  ”). 

I think  it  was  the  second  Sunday  there,  and  no  English 
church.  I had  read  the  service  with  George,  and  gone  out 
afterward  alone  for  a walk  up  a lovely  dingle  on  the  Black 
Forest  side  of  the  Khine,  where  every  pretty  cottage  was  in- 
scribed, in  fair  old  German  characters,  with  the  date  of  its 
building,  the  names  of  the  married  pair  who  had  built  it,  and 
a prayer  that,  with  God’s  blessing,  their  habitation  of  it,  and 
its  possession  by  their  children,  might  be  in  righteousness 
and  peace.  Not  in  these  set  terms,  of  course,  on  every  house, 
but  in  variously  quaint  verses  or  mottoes,  meaning  always  as 
much  as  this. 

Very  happy  in  my  Sunday  walk,  I gathered  what  wild  flow- 
ers were  in  their  first  springing,  and  came  home  with  a many- 
colored  cluster,  in  which  the  dark-purple  orchis  was  chief. 
I had  never  examined  its  structure  before,  and  by  this  after- 
noon sunlight  did  so  with  care  ; also  it  seemed  to  me  wholly 
right  to  describe  it  as  I examined  ; and  to  draw  the  outlines 
as  I described,  though  with  a dimly  alarmed  consciousness  of 
its  being  a new  fact  in  existence  for  me,  that  I should  draw 
on  Sunday. 

Which  thenceforward  I continued  to  do,  if  it  seemed  to  me 
there  was  due  occasion.  Nevertheless,  come  to  pass  how  it 
might,  the  real  new  fact  in  existence  for  me  was  that  my 
drawings  did  not  prosper  that  year,  and,  in  deepest  sense, 
never  prospered  again.  They  might  not  have  prospered  in 
the  course  of  things, — and  indeed,  could  not  without  better 
guidance  than  my  own  ; nevertheless,  the  crisis  of  change  is 
marked  at  Rheinfelden  by  my  having  made  there  two  really 
pretty  color-vignettes,  which,  had  I only  gone  on  doing  the 
like  of,  the  journey  would  have  been  visibly  successful  in 
everybody’s  sight.  Whereas,  what  actually  followed  those 


THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE, 


401 


vignettes  at  Rbeiufeldeu  was  a too  ambitious  attempt  at  the 
cliifs  of  the  Bay  of  Uri,  which  crushed  the  strength  down  in 
me  ; and  next,  a persistently  furious  one  to  draw  the  entire 
town,  three  fortresses,  and  surrounding  mountains  of  Bellin- 
zona,  graduall3^  taming  and  contracting  itself  into  a meekly 
obstinate  resolve  that  at  least  I would  draw  every  stone  of  the 
roof  right  in  one  tower  of  the  vineyards,— cette  baraqu’e,  as 
Couttet  called  it. 

I did  draw  every  stone,  nearly  right,  at  last  in  that  single 
roof ; and  meantime  read  the  “Plutus”  of  Aristophanes,  three 
or  four  times  over  in  two  months,  with  long  walks  every  after- 
noon, besides.  Total  result  on  1st  of  August — general  desola- 
tion, and  disgust  with  Bellinzona, — cette  baraque, — and  most 
of  all  with  myself,  for  not  yet  knowing  Greek  enough  to 
translate  the  “Plutus.”  In  this  state  of  mind,  a fit  took  me  of 
hunger  for  city  life  again,  military  bands,  nicely- -dressed  peo- 
ple, and  shops  with  something  inside.  And  I emphasized 
Couttet’s  disapproval  of  the  whole  tour,  by  announcing  to 
him  suddenly  that  I V7as  going,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  to 
Turin ! 

I had  still  some  purpose,  even  in  this  libertinage,  namely, 
to  outline  the  Alpine  chain  from  Monte  Viso  to  Monte  Rosa. 
Its  base  was  within  a drive  ; and  there  were  Veroneses  in  the 
Ro^^al  galleiy,  for  wet  days.  The  luxury  of  the  Hotel  de 
I’Europe  was  extremely  pleasant  after  brick  floors  and  bad 
dinners  at  Bellinzona  ; — there  was  a quiet  little  opera-house, 
where  it  was  alwaj^s  a kindness  to  the  singers  to  attend  to  the 
stage  business  ; finally,  any  quantity  of  marching  and  ma- 
noeuvring by  the  best  troops  in  Italy,  with  perfect  military 
bands,  beautifully  tossing  plumes,  and  pretty  ladies  looking 
on.  So  I settled  at  Turin  for  the  autumn. 

There,  one  Sunday  morning,  I made  my  way  in  the  south 
suburb  to  a little  chapel  which,  bj"  a dusty  roadside,  gathered 
to  its  unobserved  door  the  few  sheep  of  the  old  Waldensian 
faith  who  had  wandered  from  their  own  pastures  under  Monte 
Viso  into  the  worldly  capital  of  Piedmont. 

The  assembled  congregation  numbered  in  all  some  three 
or  four  and  twenty,  of  whom  fifteen  or  sixteen  were  gray- 
26 


402 


PR^TERITA. 


haired  women.  Their  solitary  and  clerkless  preacher,  a 
somewhat  stunted  figure  in  a ifiain  black  coat,  with  a cracked 
voice,  after  leading*  them  through  the  languid  forms  of  prayer 
which  are  all  that  in  truth  are  possible  to  people  whose  pres- 
ent life  is  dull  and  its  terrestrial  future  unchangeable,  put 
his  utmost  zeal  into  a consolatory  discourse  on  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  wide  world,  more  especially  of  the  plain  of  Pied-, 
mont  and  city  of  Turin,  and  on  the  exclusive  favor  with  God, 
enjo}^ed  by  the  between  nineteen  and  twenty-four  elect  mem- 
bers of  his  congregation,  in  the  streets  of  Admah  and  Ze- 
boim. 

Mj'self  neither  cheered  nor  greatly  alarmed  by  this  doc- 
trine, I walked  back  into  the  condemned  city,  and  up  into 
the  gallery  where  Paul  Veronese’s  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  glowed  in  full  afternoon  light.  The  gallery  windows 
being  open,  there  came  in  with  the  warm  air,  floating  swells 
and  falls  of  military  music,  from  the  courtyard  before  the 
palace,  which  seemed  to  me  more  devotional,  in  their  perfect 
art,  tune,  and  discipline,  than  anything  I remembered  of 
evangelical  hvunns.  And  as  the  perfect  color  and  sound 
gradually  asserted  their  power  on  me,  they  seemed  finally  to 
fasten  me  in  the  old  article  of  Jewish  faith,  that  things  done 
delightfully  and  rightly,  were  always  done  by  the  help  and 
in  the  Spirit  of  God. 

Of  course  that  hour’s  meditation  in  the  gallery  of  Turin 
only  concluded  the  courses  of  thought  which  had  been  lead- 
ing me  to  such  end  through  man}^  years.  There  was  no  sud- 
den conversion  possible  to  me,  either  by  preacher,  picture, 
or  dulcimer.  But  that  day,  my  evangelical  beliefs  were  put 
away,  to  be  debated  of  no  more. 


CHAPTER  n. 

MONT  VELAN. 

I was  crowded  for  room  at  the  end  of  last  chapter,  and 
could  not  give  account  of  one  or  two  bits  of  investigation 
of  the  Vaudois  character,  which  preceded  the  Queen  of  Sheba 


MONT  VELAN. 


403 


crash.  It  wasn’t  the  Queen  herself, — b}-  the  way, — but  only 
one  of  her  maids  of  honor,  on  whose  gold  brocaded  dress, 
(relieved  by  a black’s  head,  who  carried  two  red  and  green 
parrots  on  a salver,)  I worked  till  I could  do  no  more  ; — . 
to  my  father’s  extreme  amazement  and  disgust,  when  I 
brought  the  petticoat,  parrots,  and  blackamoor,  home,  as  the 
best  fruit  of  my  summer  at  the  Court  of  Sardinia  ; together 
with  one  lurid  thunderstorm  on  the  Kosa  Alps,  another  on  the 
Genis,  and  a dream  or  two  of  mist  on  the  Viso.  But  I never 
could  make  out  the  set  of  the  rocks  on  the  peak  of  Viso  ; and 
after  I had  spent  about  a hundred  pounds  at  Turin  in  grapes, 
partridges,  and  the  opera,  my  mother  sent  me  five,  to  make 
my  peace  with  Heaven  in  a gift  to  the  Vaudois  churches.  So 
I went  and  passed  a Sunday  beneath  Also  ; found  he  had 
neitlier  rocks  nor  glaciers  wmrth  mentioning,  and  that  I 
couldn’t  get  info  any  pleasant  confidences  with  the  shepherds, 
because  their  dogs  barked  and  snarled  irreconcilably,  and 
seemed  to  have  nothing  taught  them  by  their  masters  but  to 
regard  all  the  rest  of  mankind  as  thieves. 

I had  some  pious  talk  of  a mild  kind  with  the  pei  son  I 
gave  my  mother’s  five  pounds  to  : but  an  infinitely  pleasanter 
feeling  from  the  gratitude  of  the  overworn  ballerina  at  Turin, 
for  the  gift  of  as  many  of  my  own.  She  was  not  the  least 
pretty  ; and  depended  precariously  on  keeping  able  for  her 
work  on  small  pittance;  but  did  that  work  well  always  ; and 
looked  nice, — near  the  footlights. 

I noticed  also  curiously  at  this  time,  that  while  the  draw- 
ings I did  to  please  myself  seemed  to  please  nobody  else,  the 
little  pen-and-ink  sketches  made  for  my  father,  merely  to  ex- 
plain where  I was,  came  always  well  ; — one,  of  the  sunset  shin- 
ing down  a long  street  through  a grove  of  bayonets,  wdiich 
he  was  to  imagine  moving  to  military  music,  is  pleasant  to 
me  yet.  But,  on  the  whole,  Turin  began  at  last  to  bore  me 
as  mucli  as  Belliiizona  ; so  I thought  it  might  be  as  well  to 
get  home.  I drove  to  Susa  on  the  last  day  of  August,  walked 
quietly  with  Gouttet  over  the  Genis  to  Lansde-bourg  next 
day  ; and  on  2d  September  sent  my  mother  my  love,  by 
telegram,  for  breakfast- time,  on  her  birthday,  getting  answer 


404 


PE^TERITA. 


of  thanks  back  before  twelve  o'clock  ; and  began  to  think 
there  might  be  something  in  telegraphs,  after  all. 

A number  of  unpleasant  convictions  were  thus  driven  into 
my  head,  in  that  1858  journey,  like  Jael’s  nail  through  Sis- 
era’s  temples  ; or  Tintoret’s  arrow  between  St.  Sebastian’s 
eyes  : — I must  return  a moment  to  Mr.  Maurice  and  Deborah 
before  going  on  to  pleasanter  matters.  Maurice  was  not,  I 
suppose,  in  the  habit  of  keeping  a skull  on  his  chimney- 
piece,  and  looking  at  it  before  he  w^ent  to  sleej),  as  I had 
been,  for  a long  while  before  that  talk  ; or  he  would  have 
felt  that  whether  it  w^as  by  nail,  bullet,  or  little  pin,  mattered 
little  when  it  was  ordained  that  the  crowned  forehead  should 
sink  in  slumber.  And  he  would  have  known  that  Jael  was 
only  one  of  the  forms  of  “ Dira  Necessitas  ” — she,  Delilah, 
and  Judith,  all  the  three  of  them  ; only  w^e  haven’t  any  rec- 
ord of  Delilah’s  hymn  when  she  first  fastened  Samson’s  hair 
to  the  beam  : and  of  Judith,  nobody  says  any  harm  ; — I sup- 
pose because  she  gave  Holofernes  wine,  instead  of  milk  and 
butter.  It  was  Byron,  however,  not  Deborah,  who  made  me 
understand  the  thing  ; the  passage  he  paraphrased  from  her, 
in  the  “ Giaour,”  having  rung  in  my  ears  ever  since  I wTote 
the  Scythian  banquet-song — 

“The  drowsy  camel  bells  are  tinkling, 

His  mother  looked  from  her  lattice  high,”  etc. 

And  I felt  now  that  I had  myself  driven  nails  enough  into  my 
mother’s  heart,  if  not  into  my  father’s  cofiSn  ; and  would 
thankfully  have  taken  her  home  a shawl  of  divers  colors  on 
both  sides,  and  a pretty  damsel  or  two,  in  imitation  of  Sis- 
era  : but  she  always  liked  to  choose  her  damsels  for  herself. 

It  was  lucky,  in  her  last  choosing,  she  chanced  on  Joan 
Agnew  ; but  -we  are  a far  way  yet  from  Joanie’s  time,  I don’t 
quite  knowhow  far.  Turner  died,  as  I said,  in  1851  : Prout 
had  left  us  still  earlier  ; there  could  be  no  more  sharing  of 
festivities  on  my  birthday  with  him.  He  w^ent  home  to  De- 
Crespigny  Terrace  from  Denmark  Hill  one  evening,  seeming 
perfectly  well  and  happy  ; — and  we  saw  him  no  more. 

And  my  dog  Wisie,  was  he  dead  too  ? It  seems  wholly 


MONT  VELAN. 


405 


wonderful  to  me  at  this  moment  that  be  should  ever  have 
died.  He  was  a wliite  spitz,  exactly  like  Carpaccio’s  dog  in 
the  picture  of  St.  Jerome  ; and  he  came  to  me  from  a young 
Austrian  officer,  who  had  got  tired  of  him, — the  Count  Thun, 
who  fell  afterward  at  Solferino.  Before  the  dog  was  used 
enough  to  us,  George  and  I took  him  to  Lido  to  give  him  a 
little  sea  bath.  George  was  holding  him  by  his  fore-paws 
upright  among  the  little  crisp  breakers.  Wisie  snatched 
them  out  of  his  hands,  and  ran  at  full  speed — into  Fairyland, 
like  Frederick  the  Great  at  Mollwitz.  He  was  lost  on  Lido 
for  three  days  and  nights,  living  by  petty  larceny,  the  fisher- 
men and  cottagers  doing  all  they  could  to  catch  him  ; but 
they  told  me  he  “ ran  like  a hare  and  leaped  like  a horse.” 

At  last,  either  overcome  by  liunger,  or  having  made  up  his 
mind  that  even  my  service  was  preferable  to  liberty  on  Lido, 
he  took  the  deep  water  in  broad  daylight,  and  swam  straight 
for  Venice.  A fisherman  saw  him  from  a distance,  rowed 
after  him,  took  him,  tired  among  the  weeds,  and  brought  him 
to  me — the  Madonna  della  Salute  having  been  proj^itious  to 
his  repentant  striving  with  the  sea. 

From  that  time  he  became  an  obedient  and  affectionate 
dog,  though  of  extremely  self-willed  and  self-possessed  char- 
acter. I w’as  then  living  on  the  north  side  of  St.  Mark’s 
Place,  and  he  used  to  sit  outside  the  window  on  the  ledge  at 
the  base  of  its  pillars  greater  part  of  the  day,  observant  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  Venice.  Beturning  to  England,  I 
took  him  over  the  St.  Gothard,  but  found  him  entirety  un- 
appalled  by  any  of  the  wmrk  of  Devils  on  it — big  or  little. 
He  saw  nothing  to  trouble  himself  about  in  precipices,  if  they 
were  wide  enough  to  put  his  paws  on  ; and  the  dog  wdio  had 
fled  madly  from  a crisp  sea  wave,  trotted  beside  the  fall  of  the 
Reuss  just  as  if  it  had  been  another  White  Dog,  a little  big- 
ger, created  out  of  foam. 

Reaching  Paris,  he  considered  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
appear  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  that  city,  or  of  the 
Tuileries  gardens  and  Rue  Rivoli,  since  they  were  not  St. 
Mark’s  Place  ; — but,  half  asleep  one  evening,  on  a sofa  in  the 
entresol  at  Meurice’s,  and  hearing  a bark  in  the  street  wdiich 


406 


PR^ETERITA. 


sounded  Venetian — sprang  tbrougb  tbe  window  in  expectation 
of  finding  himself  on  tbe  usual  ledge — and  fell  fifteen  feet^  to 
the  pavement.  As  I ran  down,  I met  him  rushing  up  tbe 
hotel  stairs,  (be  bad  gathered  himself  from  the  stones  in  an 
instant,)  bleeding  and  giddy ; he  staggered  round  and  round 
two  or  three  times,  and  fell  helpless  on  the  floor.  I don’t 
know  if  young  ladies’  dogs  faint,  really,  when  they  are  hurt. 
He,  Wisie,  did  not  faint,  nor  even  moan,  but  he  could  not 
stir,  except  in  cramped  starts  and  shivers.  I sent  for  what 
veterinary  help  was  within  reach,  and  heard  that  the  dog 
might  recover,  if  he  could  be  kept  quiet  for  a day  or  two  in  a 
dog-hospital.  But  my  omnibus  was  at  the  door,  for  the  Lon- 
don train.  In  the  very  turn  and  niche  of  time  I heard  that 
Macdonald  of  St.  Martin’s  was  in  the  hotel,  and  would  take 
charge  of  Wisie  for  the  time  necessary.  The  poor  little 
speechless,  luckless,  wistfully  gazing  doggie  was  tenderly  put 
in  a pretty  basket,  (going  to  be  taken  where  ? thinks  the 
beating  heart,)  looks  at  his  master  to  read  what  he  can  in  the 
sad  face — can  make  out  nothing  ; is  hurried  out  of  the  inexor- 
able door,  downstairs  ; finds  himself  more  nearly  dead  next 
day,  and  among  strangers.  (Two  ?m7es  away  from  Meurice’s, 
along  the  Boulevard,  it  was.) 

He  takes  and  keeps  council  with  himself  on  that  matter. 
Drinks  and  eats  what  he  is  given,  gratefully  ; swallows  his 
medicine  obediently  ; stretches  his  limbs  from  time  to  time. 
There  was  only  a wicket  gate,  he  saw,  between  the  Boulevard 
and  him.  Silently,  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  fourth  or  fifth 
da}%  I think,  he  leaped  it,  and  along  two  miles  of  Parisian 
Boulevard  came  back  to  Meurice’s. 

I do  not  believe  there  was  ever  a more  wonderful  piece  of 
instinct  certified.  For  Macdonald  received  him,  in  astonish- 
ment,— and  Wisie  trusted  Macdonald  to  bring  him  to  his  lost 
master  again.  The  Schehallien  chief  brought  him  to  Den- 
mark Hill  ; where  of  course  Wisie  did  not  know  whether 


* Thirteen  feet  nine,  I find,  on  exact  measurement,  coming  hack  to 
Meurice’s  to  make  sure.  It  is  the  height  of  the  capitals  of  the  piers  in 
the  Rue  Rivoli, 


M02sT  VELAN. 


407 


something  still  worse  might  not  befall  him,  or  whether  he 
would  be  allowed  to  stay.  But  he  was  allowed,  and  became 
a bright  part  of  my  mother’s  day,  as  v/ell  as  of  mine,  from 
1852  to  1858,  or  perhaps  longer.  But  I must  go  back  now 
to  1854-56. 

1854.  The  success  of  the  first  volume  of  “ Modern  Paint- 
ers ” of  course  gave  me  entrance  to  the  polite  circles  of  Lon- 
don ; but  at  that  time,  even  more  than  now,  it  was  a mere 
torment  and  horror  to  me  to  have  to  talk  to  big  people  whom 
I didn’t  care  about.  Sometimes,  indeed,  an  incident  hap- 
pened that  was  amusing  or  useful  to  me  ; — I heard  Macaulay 
spout  the  first  chapter  of  Isaiah,  without  understanding  a syl- 
lable of  it ; — saw  the  Bishop  of  Oxford  taught  by  Sir  Robert 
Inglis  to  drink  sherry  cobbler  through  a straw  ; — and  formed 
one  of  the  worshipful  concourse  invited  by  the  Bunsen  family, 
to  hear  them  “talk  Bunsenese ” (Lady  Trevelyan),  and  see 
them  making  presents  to — each  other — from  their  family 
Christmas  tree,  and  private  manger  of  German  Magi.  But, 
as  a rule,  the  hours  given  to  the  polite  circles  were  an  anger- 
ing penance  to  me, — until,  after  I don’t  know  how  many,  a 
good  chance  came,  worth  all  the  penitentiary  time  endured 
before. 

I had  been  introduced  one  evening,  with  a little  more  cir- 
cumstance than  usual,  to  a seated  lady,  beside  whom  it  was 
evidently  supposed  I should  hold  it  a privilege  to  stand  for  a 
minute  or  two,  with  leave  to  speak  to  her.  I entirely  con- 
curred in  that  view  of  the  matter  ; but,  having  ascertained  in 
a moment  that  she  was  too  pretty  to  be  looked  at,  and  yet 
keep  one’s  wits  about  one,  I followed,  in  what  talk  she  led  me 
to,  with  my  eyes  on  the  ground.  Presently,  in  some  refer- 
ence to  Raphael  or  Michael  Angelo,  or  the  musical  glasses, 
the  word  “ Rome  ” occurred  ; and  a minute  afterward,  some- 
thing about  “Christmas  in  1840.”  I looked  up  with  a start  ; 
and  saw  that  the  face  was  oval, — fair, — ’the  hair,  light  brown. 
After  a pause,  I was  rude  enough  to  repeat  her  words, 
“Christmas  in  1840! — were  you  in  Rome  then?’'  “Yes,” 
she  said,  a little  surprised,  and  now  meeting  my  eyes  with 
hers,  inquiringly. 


408 


PRjETERITA. 


Another  tenth  of  a minute  passed  before  I spoke  again. 

“ Why,  I lost  all  that  winter  in  Eome  in  hunting  you  ! ” 

It  was  Egeria  herself ! then  Mrs.  Cowper-Temple.  She 
was  not  angry ; and  became  from  that  time  forward  a tute- 
lary power, — of  the  brightest  and  happiest  ; differing  from 
Lady  Trevetyan’s,  in  that  Lady  Trevelyan  hadn’t  all  her  own 
w^ay  at  home  ; and  taught  me,  therefore,  to  look  upon  life  as 
a “ Spiritual  combat ; ” but  Egeria  always  had  her  own  way 
everywhere — thought  that  I aiso  should  have  mine, — and  gen- 
erally got  it  for  me. 

She  was  able  to  get  a good  deal  of  it  for  me,  almost  imme- 
diately, at  Broadlands,  because  Mr.  Cowper-Temple  was  at 
that  time  Lord  Palmerston’s  private  secretary : and  it  had 
chanced  that  in  1845  I had  some  correspondence  with  the 
government  about  Tintoret’s  Crucifixion  ; — not  the  great 
Crucifixion  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Kocco,  but  the  bright  one 
w'ith  the  grove  of  lances  in  the  Church  of  St.  Cassan,  which  I 
wanted  to  get  for  the  National  Gallery.  I wu’ote  to  Lord 
Palmerston  about  it,  and  believe  we  should  have  got  it,  but 
for  Mr.  Edward  Cheney’s  putting  a spoke  in  the  wheel  for 
pure  spite.  However,  Lord  Palmerston  was,  I believe,  satis- 
fied with  what  I had  done  ; and,  now  perhaps  thinking  there 
might  be  some  trustworthy  official  qualities  in  me,  allowed 
Mr.  Cowper-Temple  to  bring  me,  one  Saturday  evening,  to  go 
dowm  with  him  to  Broadlands.  It  was  dark  when  we  reached 
the  South-Western  station.  Lord  Palmerston  received  me 
much  as  Lord  Oldborough  receives  Mr.  Temple  in  “Patron- 
age — gave  me  the  seat  opposite  his  own,  he  with  his  back 

to  the  engine.  Mr.  Cowper-Temple  beside  me;  — Lord 
Palmerston’s  box  of  business  papers  on  the  seat  beside  him. 
He  unlocked  it  and  looked  over  a few, — said  some  hospitable 
w'ords,  enough  to  put  me  at  ease,  and  went  to  sleep,  or  at 
least  remained  quiet,  till  we  got  to  Komsey.  I forget  the 
dinner,  that  Saturday  ; but  I certainly  had  to  take  in  Lady 
Palmerston  ; and  must  have  pleased  her  more  or  less,  for  on 
the  Sunday  morning  Lord  Palmerston  took  me  himself  to  the 
service  in  Komsey  Abbey : drawing  me  out  a little  in  the 
drive  through  the  village  ; and  that  day  at  dinner  he  put  me 


MONT  VELAN. 


409 


on  Ins  right  hand,  and  led  the  conversation  distinctly  to  the 
wildest  political  theories  I was  credited  with,*  cross-examin- 
ing me  playfully,  but  attending  quite  seriously  to  my  points  ; 
and  kindly  and  clearly  showing  me  where  I should  fail,  in 
practice.  He  disputed  no  principle  with  me,  (being,  I fan- 
cied, partly  of  the  same  myid  with  me  about  principles,)  but 
only  feasibilities ; whereas  in  every  talk  permitted  me  more 
recently  by  Mr.  Gladstone,  he  disputes  all  the  principles  be- 
fore their  application  ; and  the  application  of  all  that  get  past 
the  dispute.  D’Israeli  differed  from  both  in  making  a jest 
alike  of  principle  and  practice  ; but  I never  came  into  full 
collision  with  him  but  once.  It  is  a long  story,  about  little 
matters  ; but  they  had  more  influence  in  the  end  than  many 
greater  ones, — so  I will  write  them. 

I never  went  to  official  dinners  in  Oxford  if  I could  help 
it ; not  that  I was  ever  really  wanted  at  them,  but  sometimes 
it  became  my  duty  to  go,  as  an  Art  Professor  ; and  when  the 
Princess  of  Wales  came,  one  winter,  to  look  over  the  Art 
Galleries,  I had  of  course  to  attend,  and  be  of  what  use  I 
could  : and  then  came  commands  to  the  dinner  at  the  Dean- 
ery,— where  I knew  no  more  how  to  behave  than  a marmot 
pup ! However,  my  place  was  next  but  one  to  DTsraeli’s, 
whose  head,  seen  close,  interested  me  ; the  Princess,  in  the 
centre  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  might  be  glanced  at 
now  and  then, — to  the  forgetfulness  of  the  evils  of  life.  No- 
body wanted  me  to  talk  about  anything ; and  I recovered 
peace  of  mind  enough,  in  a little  while,  to  hear  D’Israeli  talk, 
which  was  nice ; I think  we  even  said  something  to  each  other, 
once,  about  the  salmon.  Well — then,  presently  I was  aware 
of  a little  ripple  of  brighter  converse  going  round  the  table, 
and  saw  it  had  got  at  the  Princess,  and  a glance  of  D’Israeli’s 

* The  reader  will  please  remember  that  the  “ Life  of  the  Workman  ” 
in  the  “ Stones  of  Venice,”  the  long  note  on  Education  at  the  end  of 
first  volume  of  “Modern  Painters.”  and  the  fierce  vituperation  of  tlie 
Renaissance  schools  in  all  my  historical  teaching,  were  at  this  time 
attracting  far  more  attention,  because  part  of  ray  architectural  and 
pictorial  work,  than  ever  afterward  the  commercial  and  social  analyses 
of  “ Unto  This  Last.” 


410 


PRJiJTEBITA. 


made  me  tliiiik  it  must  have  something  to  do  with  me.  And 
so  it  had,  thus  : — It  had  chanced  either  the  day  before,  or  the 
day  before  that,  that  the  Planet  Saturn  had  treated  me  with 
his  usual  adversity  in  the  carrying  out  of  a plot  with  iUice  in 
Wonderland.  For,  that  evening,  the  Dean  and  Mrs.  Liddell 
dined  by  command  at  Blenheim  : but  the  girls  were  not  com- 
manded ; and  as  I had  been  complaining  of  never  getting  a 
sight  of  them  latelj^,  after  knowing  them  from  the  nursery, 
Alice  said  that  she  thought,  perhaps,  if  I would  come  round 
after  papa  and  mamma  were  safe  off  to  Blenheim,  Edith  and 
she  might  give  me  a cup  of  tea  and  a little  singing,  and 
Rhoda  show  me  how  she  was  getting  on  wdth  her  drawing 
and  geometry,  or  the  like.  And  so  it  was  arranged.  The 
night  was  wild  with  snow,  and  no  one  likely  to  come  round 
to  the  Deanery  after  dark.  I think  Alice  must  have  sent  me 
a little  note,  when  the  eastern  coast  of  Tom  Quad  was  clear. 
I slipped  round  from  Corpus  through  Peckvvater,  shook  the 
snow  off  my  gown,  and  found  an  armchair  ready  for  me,  and 
a bright  fireside,  and  a laugh  or  two,  and  some  pretty  music 
looked  out,  and  tea  coming  up. 

AVell,  I think  Edith  had  got  the  tea  made,  and  Alice  was 
just  bringing  the  muffins  to  perfection — I don’t  recollect 
that  Rhoda  was  there  ; (I  never  did,  that  anybody  else  was 
there,  if  Edith  was  ; but  it  is  all  so  like  a dream  now,  I’m  not 
sure) — when  there  was  a sudden  sense  of  some  stars  having 
been  blown  out  by  the  wind,  round  the  corner ; and  then  a 
crushing  of  the  snow  outside  the  house,  and  a drifting  of  it 
inside  ; and  the  children  all  scampered  out  to  see  what  was 
wrong,  and  I followed  slowly ; — and  there  were  the  Dean  and 
Mrs.  Liddell  standing  just  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  the 
footmen  in  consternation,  and  a silence, — and — 

“ How  sorry  you  must  be  to  see  us,  Mr.  Ruskin ! ” began 
at  last  Mrs.  Liddell. 

“I  never  was  more  so,”  I replied.  ‘‘But  what’s  the  mat- 
ter?” 

“Well,”  said  the  Dean,  “we  couldn’t  even  get  past  the 
parks ; the  snow’s  a fathom  deep  in  the  Woodstock  Road. 
But  never  mind  ; we’ll  be  very  good  and  quiet,  and  keep  out 


MONT  VELAN. 


411 


of  the  way.  Go  back  to  your  tea,  and  we’ll  have  our  dinner 
downstairs.” 

And  so  we  did  ; but  we  couldn’t  keep  papa  and  mamma 
out  of  the  drawing-room  when  they  had  done  dinner,  and  I 
went  back  to  Corpus,  disconsolate. 

Now,  whether  the  Dean  told  the  Princess  himself,  or 
whether  Mrs.  Liddell  told,  or  the  girls  themselves,  somehow 
this  story  got  all  round  the  dinner  table,  and  D’Israeli  was 
perfect  in  every  detail,  in  ten  minutes,  nobod}'-  knew  how. 
When  the  Princess  rose,  there  was  clearly  a feeling  on  her 
part  of  some  kindness  to  me  ; and  she  came  very  soon,  in  the 
drawing-room,  to  receive  the  report  of  the  Slade  Professor. 

Now,  in  the  Deanery  drawing-room,  everybody  in  Oxford 
who  hadn’t  been  at  the  dinner  was  waiting  to  have  their  slice 
of  Princess — due  officially — and  to  be  certified  in  the  papers 
next  day.  The  Princess, — knowing  whom  she  had  to  speak 
to, — might  speak  to,  or  mightn’t,  without  setting  the  whole 
of  Oxford  by  the  ears  next  day,  simjfiy  walked  to  the  people 
she  chose  to  honor  with  audience,  and  stopped,  to  hear  if  they 
had  anything  to  say,  I saw  my  turn  had  come,  and  the  re- 
volving zodiac  brought  its  fairest  sign  to  me  : she  paused,  and 
the  attendant  stars  and  terrestrial  beings  round,  listened,  to 
hear  what  the  marmot-pup  had  to  say  for  itself. 

In  the  space  of,  say,  a minute  and  a half,  I told  the  Princess 
that  Landscape-painting  had  been  little  cultivated  by  the 
Heads  of  Colleges, — that  it  had  been  still  less  cultivated  by  the 
Undergraduates,  and  that  my  young-lady  pupils  always  ex- 
pected me  to  teach  them  how  to  paint  like  Turner,  in  six  les- 
sons. Finding  myself  getting  into  difficulties,  I stopped  : the 
Princess,  I suppose,  felt  I was  getting  her  into  difficulties  too  ; 
so  she  bowed  courteously,  and  went  on — to  the  next  Professor, 
in  silence. 

The  crowd,  which  had  expected  a compliment  to  Her  Royal 
Highness  of  best  Modern  Painter  quality,  was  extremely  dis- 
appointed ; and  a blank  space  seemed  at  once  to  form  itself 
round  me,  when  the  door  from  the  nurseries  opened  ; and — 
enter  Rhoda — in  full  dress  ! 

..  Very  beautiful ! But  just  a snip  too  short  in  the  petti- 


412 


PRjETERITA. 


coats, — a trip  too  dainty  in  tlie  ankles,  a dip  too  deep  of  sweet- 
briar  red  in  the  ribands.  Not  the  damsel  who  came  to  hearken, 
named  Rhoda, — by  any  means  ; — but  as  exquisite  a little 
spray  of  rhododendron  ferrugineum  as  ever  sparkled  in  Al- 
pine dew. 

D’Israeli  saw  his  opening  in  an  instant.  Drawing  himself 
to  his  full  height,  he  advanced  to  meet  Rhoda.  The  whole 
room  became  all  eyes  and  ears.  Bowing  with  kindly  rever- 
ence, he  waved  his  hand,  and  introduced  her  to — the  world. 
“ Tkh  is,  I understand,  the  young  lady  in  whose  art-educa- 
tion Professor  Ruskin  is  so  deeply  interested  ! ” 

And  there  was  nothing  for  me  but  simple  extinction  ; for  I 
had  never  given  Rhoda  a lesson  in  my  life,  (no  such  luck !) ; 
yet  I could  not  disclaim  the  interest, — nor  disown  Mr.  Mac- 
donald’s geometry ! I could  only  bow  as  well  as  a marmot 
might,  in  imitation  of  the  Minister  ; and  get  at  once  away  to 
Corpus,  out  of  human  ken. 

This  gossip  has  beguiled  me  till  I have  no  time  left  to  tell 
what  in  proper  sequence  should  have  been  chiefly  dwelt  on  in 
this  number, — the  effect  on  my  mind  of  the  Hospice  of  St. 
Bernard,  as  opposed  to  the  Hermitage  of  St.  Bruno.  I must 
pass  at  once  to  the  outline  of  some  scenes  in  early  Swiss 
histoiy,  of  which  the  reader  must  be  reminded  before  he 
can  understand  why  I had  set  my  heart  so  earnestly  upon 
drawing  the  ruined  tow'ers  of  Fribourg,  Thun,  and  Rhein- 
felden. 

In  the  mountain  kingdom  of  which  I claimed  possession  by 
the  law  of  love,  in  first  seeing  it  from  the  Col  de  la  Faucille, 
the  ranges  of  entirely  celestial  mountain,  the  “ everlasting 
clouds  ” whose  glory  does  not  fade,  are  arranged  in  clusters 
of  summits  definitely  distinct  in  form,  and  always  recogniza- 
ble, each  in  its  own  beauty,  by  any  careful  observer  who  has 
once  seen  them  on  the  south  and  north.  Of  these,  the  most 
beautiful  in  Switzerland,  and  as  far  as  I can  read,  or  learn,  the 
most  beautiful  mountain  in  the  wmrld,  is  the  Jungfrau  of 
Lauterbrunnen.  Next  to  her,  the  double  peaks  of  the  Wet- 
terhorn  and  Wellborn,  with  their  glacier  of  Rosenlaui ; next 
to  these,  the  Aiguille  de  Bionnassay,  the  buttress  of  Mont 


MONT  VELAN. 


413 


Blanc  on  the  south-west  ; and  after  these  loveliest,  the  various 
summits  of  the  Bernese,  Chamouni,  and  Zermatt  Alps,  accord- 
ing to  their  relative  power,  and  the  advantage  of  their  place 
for  the  general  observer.  Thus  the  Blumlis  Alp,  though 
only  ten  thousand  feet  high,  has  far  greater  general  influence 
than  the  IMont  Combin,  which  is  nearly  as  high  as  Mont 
Blanc,  but  can  only  be  seen  with  diflflculty,  and  in  no  associa- 
tion with  the  lowlands. 

Among  subordinate  peaks,  five, — the  Tournette  of  Annecy, 
the  Dent  du  Midi  of  Bex,  the  Stockhorn,  south  of  Thun, 
Mont  Pilate  at  Lucerne,  and  the  High  Sentis  of  Appenzell, — 
are  notable  as  outlying  masses,  of  extreme  importance  in  their 
effect  on  the  approaches  to  the  greater  chain.  But  in  that 
chain  itself,  no  mountain  of  subordinate  magnitude  can  assert 
any  rivalship  with  Mont  Velan,  the  ruling  alp  of  the  Great 
St.  Bernard. 

For  Mont  Velan  signals  down  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  past 
St.  Maurice,  to  Yevay,  the  line  of  the  true  natural  pass  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard,  from  France  into  Italy  by  the  Valley  of 
Martigny  and  Val  d’Aosta  ; a perfectly  easy  and  accessible 
pass  for  liorse  and  foot,  through  all  the  summer;  not  danger- 
ous even  in  winter,  except  in  storm  ; and  from  the  earliest 
ages,  down  to  Napoleon’s,  the  pass  chosen  by  the  greatest 
kings,  and  wisest  missionaries.  The  defiles  of  the  Simplon 
were  still  impassable  in  the  twelfth  century,  and  the  Episco- 
pate of  the  Valais  was  therefore  an  isolated  territory  branch- 
ing up  from  Martigny  ; unassailable  from  above,  but  in  con- 
nection with  the  Monastery  of  St.  Bernard  and  Abbey  of  St. 
Maurice,  holding  alike  Burgundian,  Swiss,  and  Saracen 
powers  at  baj’,  beyond  the  Castle  of  Chiilon. 

And  I must  remind  the  reader  that  at  the  time  when  Swiss 
history  opens,  there  was  no  such  country  as  France,  in  her 
existing  strength.  There  wais  a sacred  “Isle  of  France,”  and 
a group  of  cities,— Amiens,  Paris,  Soissons,  Rheims,  Chartres, 
Sens,  and  Troyes, — essentially  French,  in  arts,  and  faith. 
But  round  this  Frank  central  province  lay  Picard}^  Norman- 
dy, Brittany,  Anjou,  Aquitaine,  Languedoc,  and  Provence,  all 
^of  them  independent  national  powers  : and  on  the  east  of  the 


414 


PHMTERITA, 


Cote  d’Or,'^  the  strong  and  true  Mngdiom  of  Burgundy,  which 
for  centuries  contended  with  Germany  for  the  dominion  of 
Switzerland,  and,  from  her  Alpine  throne,  of  Europe. 

This  was,  I have  said,  at  the  tim.e  “ when  Swiss  history 
opens” — as  such.  It  opens  a century  earlier,  in  773,  as  a 
part  of  all  Christian  history,  when  Charlemagne  convoked  his 
Franks  at  Geneva  to  invade  Italy,  and  dividing  them  there 
into  two  bodies,  placed  Swiss  mountaineers  at  the  head  of 
each,  and  sending  one  division  by  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  un- 
der his  own  uncle,  Bernard,!  the  son  of  Charles  Martel,  led 
the  other  himself  over  the  Cenis.  It  was  for  this  march  over 
the  Great  St.  Bernard  that  Charlemagne  is  said  to  have  given 
the  foresters  of  the  central  Alps  their  three  trumpets — the 
Bull  of  Uri,  the  Cow  of  Unterwald,  and  the  horn  of  Lucerne  ; 
and,  without  question,  after  his  Italian  victories,  Switzerland 
became  the  organic  centre  of  civilization  to  his  whole  empire. 
“It  is  thus,”  says  M.  Gaullieur,  “that  the  heroic  history  of 
old  Zurich,  and  the  annals  of  Tliurgovie  and  Bhetie,  are  full 
of  the  memorable  acts  of  the  Emperor  of  the  West,  and 
among  other  traditions  the  foundation  of  the  Water-church, 
(Wasserkirche,)  at  Zurich,  attaches  itself  to  the  sight  of  a 
marvellous  serpent,  who  came  to  ask  justice  of  the  Emperor, 
in  a place  where  he  gave  it  to  all  his  subjects,  by  the  Limmat 
shore.” 

I pause  here  a moment  to  note  that  there  used  to  be  indeed 
harmless  water  serpents  in  the  Swiss  waters,  when  perfectly 
pure.  I myself  saw  those  of  the  Lac  de  Cliede,  in  the  year 
1833,  and  had  one  of  them  drawn  out  of  the  water  by  the 
char-a-banc  driver  with  his  whip,  that  I might  see  the  yellow 
ring  round  its  neck.  The  color  of  the  body  was  dark  green. 
If  the  reader  will  compare  the  account  given  in  “Eagle’s 
Nest  ” of  one  of  the  serpents  of  the  Giesbach,  he  will  under- 
stand at  once  how  easily  the  myths  of  antiquity  would  attach 

* The  eastern  boundary  of  France  proper  is  formed  by  the  masses  of 
the  Vosges,  Cote  d’Or,  and  Monts  de  la  Madeleine. 

f Don’t  confuse  him  with  St.  Bernard  of  Annecy,  from  whom  the  pass 
is  named  ; nor  St.  Bernard  of  Annecy  with  St.  Bernard  of  Dijon,  the 
Madonna’s  chosen  servant. 


3I0NT  VELAN. 


415 


themselves  among  the  Alps,  as  much  to  the  living*  serpent  as 
to  the  living  eagle. 

Also,  let  the  reader  note  that  the  heryl-aolomd  water  of  the 
Lake  of  Zurich  and  the  Limmat  gave,  in  old  days,  the  per- 
fectest  type  of  purity,  of  all  the  Alpine  streams.  The  deeper 
blue  of  the  Reuss  and  Rhone  grew  dark  at  less  depth,  and 
always  gave  some  idea  of  the  presence  of  a mineral  element, 
causing  the  color  ; while  the  Aar  had  soiled  itself  with  clay 
even  before  reaching  Berne.  But  the  pale  aquamarine  crys- 
tal of  the  Lake  of  Zurich,  with  the  fish  set  in  it,  some  score 
of  them — small  and  great — to  a cube  fathom,  and  the  rapid 
fall  and  stainless  ripple  of  the  Limmat,  through  the  whole  of 
its  course  under  the  rocks  of  Baden  to  the  Reuss,  remained, 
summer  and  winter,  of  a constant,  sacred,  inviolable,  super- 
natural loveliness. 

By  the  shore  of  the  Limmat  then,  sate  Charlemagne  to  do 
justice,  as  Canute  by  the  sea  : — the  first  “ Water  church  ” of 
the  beginning  river  is  his  building  ; and  never  was  St.  Je- 
rome’s rendering  of  the  twenty-third  Psalm  sung  in  any 
church  more  truly  : “ In  loco  pascue,  ibi  collocavit  me,  super 
aquam  refectionis  educamV'  But  the  Cathedral  Minster  of 
Zurich  dates  from  days  no  longer  questionable  or  fabu- 
lous. 

During  the  first  years  of  the  tenth  century,  Switzerland  was 
disputed  between  Rodolph  IL,  King  of  Burgundy,  and  Bonr- 
card,  Duke  of  Swabia.  The  German  duke  at  last  defeated 
Rodolph,  near  Winterthur ; but  with  so  much  difficulty,  that 
he  chose  rather  thenceforward  to  have  him  for  ally  rather 
than  enemy  ; and  gave  him,  for  pledge  of  peace,  his  daughter 
Bertha,  to  be  Burgundian  queen. 

Bertha,  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  Bourcard  and  Regilinda, 
was  at  this  time  only  thirteen  or  fourteen.  The  marriage  was 
not  celebrated  till  921, — and  let  the  reader  remember  that 
marriage, — though  there  was  no  Wedding  March  played  at 
it,  but  many  a wedding  prayer  said, — for  the  beginning  of  all 
happiness  to  Burgnudy,  Switzeiimid,  and  Germany.  Her 
husband,  in  the  first  ten  years  after  their  marriage,  in  alli- 
ance with  Henry  the  Fowler  of  Germany,  drove  the  Saracen 


416 


PR^TERITA. 


and  Hungarian  nomad  armies  out  of  the  Alps  : and  then 
Bertha  set  herself  to  efface  the  traces  of  their  ravages  ; build- 
ing, everywhere  through  her  territories,  castles,  monasteries, 
■walled  towns,  and  towers  of  refuge  ; restoring  the  town  and 
church  of  Soleure  in  930,  of  Moutiers  in  the  Jura,  in  932  ; in 
the  same  year  endowing  the  canons  of  Amsoldingen  at  Thun, 
and  then  the  church  of  Neuchatel  ; finally,  toward  935,  the 
church  and  convent  of  Zurich,  of  which  her  mother  Begilinda 
became  abbess  in  949,  and  remained  abbess  till  her  death  ; — 
the  Queen  Bertha  herself  residing  chiefly  near  her,  in  a tower 
on  Mount  Albis. 

In  950  Bertha  had  to  mourn  the  death  of  her  son-in-law 
Lothaire,  and  the  imprisonment  of  her  daughter  Adelaide  on 
the  Lake  of  Garda.  But  Otho  the  Great,  of  Germany,  avenged 
Lothaire,  drove  Berenger  out  of  Italy,  and  himself  married 
Adelaide,  reinstating  Conrad  of  Burgundy  on  the  throne  of 
Burgundy  and  Switzerland  : and  then  Bertha,  strong  at  once 
under  ‘the  protection  of  the  king  her  son,  and  the  emperor 
her  son-in-law,  and  with  her  mother  beside  her.  Abbess  of 
the  Convent  des  Dames  Nobles  of  Zurich,  began  her  work  of 
perfect  beneficence  to  the  whole  of  Switzerland. 

In  the  summer  times,  spinning  from  her  distaff  as  she  rode, 
she  traversed — the  legends  say,  with  onty  a country  guide  to 
lead  her  horse,  (when  such  a queen’s  horse  would  need  lead- 
ing !) — all  the  now  peaceful  fields  of  her  wide  dominion,  from 
Jura  to  the  Alps.  My  own  notion  is  that  an  Anne-of-Geier- 
stein-like  maid  of  honor  or  two  must  have  gleamed  here  and 
there  up  and  down  the  hills  beside  her ; and  a couple  of  old 
knights,  perhaps,  followed  at  their  own  pace.  Howsoever, 
the  queen  verily  did  know  her  peasants,  and  their  cottages 
and  fields,  from  Zurich  to  Geneva,  and  ministered  to  them 
for  full  twelve  years. 

In  962,  her  son  Conrad  gave  authority  almost  monarchic, 
to  her  Abbey  of  Bayern e,  which  could  strike  a coinage  of 
its  own.  Not  much  after  that  time,  her  cousin  Ulrich, 
Bishop  of  Strasbourg,  came  to  visit  her ; and  with  him  and 
the  king  her  sou,  she  revisited  all  the  religious  institutions 
she  had  founded,  and  finally,  with  them  both,  consecrated 


MONT  YELAN 


417 


the  Church  of  Neuchatel  to  the  Virgin.  The  Monustery  of 
the  Great  St.  Bernard  was  founded  at  the  same  time. 

I cannot  find  the  year  of  her  death,  but  her  son  Conrad 
died  in  993,  and  was  buried  beside  his  motiier  at  Payerne. 

And  during  the  whole  of  the  11th  century,  and  more  than 
half  of  the  12th,  the  power  of  Bertha’s  institutions,  and  of 
the  Church  generally,  increased  in  Switzerland  ; but  gradually 
corrupted  by  its  wealth  of  territor}^  into  a feudal  hierarch^', 
against  which,  together  with  that  of  the  nobles  who  were 
always  at  war  with  each  other,  Duke  Berthold  IV.,  of  Zseh* 
ringen,  undertook,  in  1178,  the  founding  of  Fiubourg  in 
Uchtland. 

The  culminating  point  of  the  new  city  above  the  scarped 
rocks  which  border  the  Sarine-(on  the  eastern  bank?)  was 
occupied  by  the  Chateau  de  Tyr  (Tyrensis),  ancient  home  of 
the  Counts  of  that  country,  and  cradle,  it  is  believed,,  of  the 
house  of  Thierstein.  Berthold  called  his  new  town  Freyburg, 
as  well  as  that  which  existed  already  in  his  states  of  Breisgau, 
because  he  granted  it  in  effect  the  same  liberties,  the  same 
franchises,  and  the  same  communal  charter  (Handfeste)  which 
had  been  given  to  the  other  Fribourg.  A territory  of  nine 
leagues  in  circumference  was  given  to  Fribourg  in  Uchtland, 
a piece  which  they  still  call  “the  old  lands.”  Part  of  the 
new  colonists  came  from  Breisgau,  Black  Forest  people  ; part 
from  the  Roman  Pays  de  Vaud.  The  Germans  lived  in  the 
valley,  the  others  on  the  heights.  Built  on  the  confines  of 
France  and  Germany,  Fribourg  served  for  the  point  of 
contact  to  two  nations  until  then  hostile  ; and  the  Handfeste 
of  Fribourg  served  for  a model  to  all  the  municipal  constitu- 
tions of  Switzerland.  Still,  at  this  day,  the  town  is  divided 
into  two  parts,  and  into  tw'O  languages. 

This  was  in  1178.  Twelve  years  later,  Berthold  V.,  the 
greatest  and  the  best  of  the  Dukes  of  Zaehringen,  made,  of 
the  village  of  Burgdorf  in  the  Emmenthal,  the  town  of 
Berthoud,  the  name  given  probably  from  his  own  ; and  then, 
in  the  year  1191,  laid  the  foundations  of  the  town  of  Berne. 

He  chose  for  its  site  a spot  in  the  ro3^al  domain,  for  he 
intended  the  new  city  to  be  called  the  Imperial  city  ; and 
27 


418 


PE^TERITA, 


the  place  he  chose  was  near  a manor  which  had  served  in 
the  preceding  century  for  occasional  residence  to  the  Kodol- 
phian  kings.  It  "was  a long  high  promontory,  nearly  an 
island,  whose  cliff  sides  were  washed  by  the  Aar.  The  Duke 
of  Zaehriiigen’s  Marshal,  Cuno  of  Babenberg,  received  orders 
to  surround  with  walls  the  little  island  on  which  stood  the 
simple  hamlet  of  Berne,  now  become  the  powerful  city  of 
Berne,  praiseworthy  at  first  in  the  democratic  spirit  of  its 
bourgeois,  and  afterward  in  its  aristocracy,  whose  policy’',  at 
once  elevated,  firm,  consistent,  and  ambitious,  mingled  itself 
in  all  the  great  affairs  of  the  neighboring  countries,  and 
became  a true  power,  upon  which  the  sovereigns  of  the  first 
order  had  sometimes  to  count. 

Lasth^,  Berthold  built  the  Castle  of  Thun,  where  the  Aar 
issues  out  of  its  lake  ; castle  which,  as  may  be  seen  at  the 
present  day,  commanded  the  whole  level  plain,  opening  to 
Berne,  and  the  pass  into  the  Oberland. 

Thus  the  three  towms  Fribourg,  Berne,  and  Thun,  form,  at 
the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  the  triple  fortress  of  the 
Dukes  of  Zsehringen,  strengthened  by  a body  of  burghers  to 
whom  the  Dukes  have  granted  privileges  till  then  unknown  ; 
this  Ducal  and  Civic  allied  power  asserting  itself  in  entire 
command  of  Switzerland  proper,  against  the  Counts  of  Savoy 
in  the  south,  the  Burgundian  princes  in  the  east,  and  the  ec- 
clesiastical power  of  Ital}^  vested  in  the  Bishops  of  Sion,  in 
the  Valais,—  thence  extending  from  the  mouth  of  the  Eh  one 
into  the  Pays  de  Vaud,  and  enthroned  there  at  Payerne  by 
the  bequests  of  Queen  Bertha.  The  monks  of  her  royal  ab- 
bey at  Payerne,  seeing  that  all  the  rights  they  possessed  over 
the  Pays  de  Vaud  were  endangered  by  the  existence  of  Fri- 
bourg, opposed  the  building  of  the  Church  of  St.  Nicholas 
there,  asserting  that  the  ground  assigned  to  it  and  its  monas- 
tery belonged  to  the  Abbey  of  Payerne.  Berthold  IV.  \vas 
on  the  point  of  attacking  the  monks  on  their  own  rock  when 
the  nobles  of  the  Vaud  interfered,  as  mediators. 

Four  of  them — Ame,  Count  of  Geneva,  Vauthier  of  Blonay, 
Conrad  of  Estaveyer,  and  Kodolph  of  Montagny— compelled 
Berthold  to  ratify  the  privileges,  and  resign  the  lands,  of  the 


MONT  YELAN. 


419 


monks  of  Paj'erne,  by  a deed  signed  in  1178  ; the  church  and 
monastery  of  St.  Nicholas  being  founded  at  Fribourg  under 
their  rule.  And  this  constitution  of  Fribourg,  whether  the 
Dukes  of  Zsehringen  foresaw  it  or  not,  became  the  fecund 
germ  of  a new  social  order.  The  “Commune”  was  the  ori- 
gin of  the  “ Canton,”  “and  the  beneficent  sera  of  communal 
liberty  served  for  acheminement  to  the  constitutional  liberties 
and  legislative  codes  of  modern  society.” 

Thus  far  M.  Gaullieur,  from  whose  widow  I leased  my  own 
chalet  at  Mornex,  and  whose  son  I instructed,  to  the  best  of 
my  power,  in  clearing  land  of  useless  stones  on  the  slope  of 
the  Saleve, — under  the  ruins  of  the  old  Chateau  de  Savoie, 
the  central  castle,  once,  of  all  Savoy  ; on  the  site  of  which, 
and  summit  of  its  conical  hill-throne,  seated  himself,  in  his 
pleasure  villa,  all  the  summer  long,  my  very  dear  friend  and 
physician,  old  Dr.  Gosse  of  Geneva  ; Avhose  mountain  garden, 
about  three  hundred  feet  above  mine,  was  indeed  enclosed 
by  the  remaining  walls  and  angle  towers  of  the  Castle  of 
Savoy,  of  which  the  Doctor  had  repaired  the  lowest  tow^er  so 
as  to  serve  for  a reservoir  to  the  rain  rushing  down  the  steep 
garden  slopes  in  storm, — and  to  let  none  of  it  be  wasted 
afterward  in  the  golden  Saleve  sunshine. 

“ C’etait  line  tour  de  guerre,”  said  the  Doctor  to  me  tri- 
umphantly, as  he  first  led  me  round  the  confines  of  his  es- 
tate. “ Voyez.  C etait  une  tour  de  guerre.  J’en  ai  fait  une 
bouteille  ! ” 

But  that  walk  by  the  castle  wall  was  long  after  the  Mont 
Velan  times  of  which  I am  now  telling  ; — in  returning  to 
which,  will  the  reader  please  note  the  homes  of  the  four  Vau- 
dois  knights  who  stood  for  Queen  Bertha’s  monastery:  Ame 
of  Geneva,  Vauthier  of  Blonay,  Conrad  of  Estaveyer,  and 
Eodolph  of  Montagny  ? 

Arne’s  castle  of  Geneva  stood  on  the  island,  where  the  clock 
tower  is  now  ; and  has  long  been  destroyed  : of  Estaveyer  and 
Montagny  I know  nothing  ; but  the  Castle  of  Blonay  still 
stands  above  Vevay,  as  Chillon  still  at  the  head  of  her  lake  ; 
but  the  chfiteau  of  Blonay  has  been  modified  gradually  into 
comfort  of  sweet  habitation,  the  war  towers  of  it  sustaining 


420 


PR.^JTERTTA. 


timber-latticed  walls,  and  crowned  by  pretty  turrets  and  pin- 
nacles in  cheerful  nobleness — trellised  all  with  fruitage  or 
climbing  flowers  ; its  moats  now  all  garden  ; its  surrounding 
fields  all  lily  and  meadowsweet,  with  blue  gleamings*  it  may 
be  of  violet,  it  may  be  of  gentian  ; its  heritage  of  human  life 
guarded  still  in  the  peacefully  scattered  village,  or  farm-house, 
here  and  there  half  hidden  in  apple-blossom,  or  white  with 
fallen  cherry-blossom,  as  if  with  snow. 

I have  already  told  how  fond  my  father  was  of  staying  at 
the  Trois  Eois  of  Vevay,  when  I was  up  among  the  aiguilles 
of  Chamouni.  In  later  years,  I acknowledged  his  better  taste,^ 
and  would  contentedly  stay  with  him  at  Vevay,  as  long  as  he 
liked, — myself  always  perfectly  happy  in  the  fields  and  on  the 
hillsides  round  the  Chateau  Blonay.  Also,  my  father  and 
mother  were  quite  able  at  any  time  to  get  up  as  far  as  Blonay 
themselves ; and  usually  walked  so  far  with  me  when  I w^as 
intent  on  the  higher  hills, — waiting,  they,  and  our  old  servant, 
Lucy  Tovey,  (whom  we  took  abroad  with  ns  sometimes  that 
she  might  see  the  places  we  were  always  talking  of,)  until  I 
had  done  my  bit  of  drawing  or  hammering,  and  we  all  went 
down  together,  through  the  vineyards,  to  four  o’clock  dinner ; 
then  the  evening  was  left  free  for  me  to  study  the  Dent  d’Oche 
and  chains  of  crag  declining  southward  to  Geneva,  by  sunset. 

Thus  Vevay,  year  after  j^ear,  became  the  most  domestic  of 
all  our  foreign  homes.  At  Venice,  my  mother  always  thought 
the  gondola  would  upset ; at  Chamouni,  my  father,  that  I 
should  fall  into  the  Mer  de  Glace  ; at  Pisa,  he  would  ask  me, 
“ What  shall  I give  the  coachman  ? ” and  at  Florence,  dispute 
the  delightfulness  of  Cimabue.  But  at  Vova}",  we  were  all  of 
a mind.  My  father  was  professionally  at  home  in  the  vine- 
yards,— sentimentally  in  the  Bosquet  de  Julie  ; my  mother 
liked  apple  orchards  and  narcissus  meads  as  much  as  I did  ; 
and  for  me,  there  was  the  Dent  du  Midi,  for  eternal  snow,  in 
the  distance ; the  Eochers  de  Naye,  for  climbing,  accessibly 
near ; Chillon  for  history  and  poetry ; and  the  lake,  in  the 
whole  breadth  of  it  from  Lausanne  to  Meillerie,  for  Turnerian 
mist  effects  of  morning  and  Turnerian  sunsets  at  evening ; 
and  moonlights, — as  if  the  moon  were  one  radiant  glacier  of 


MONT  VELAN. 


421 


frozen  gold.  Then  if  one  wanted  to  go  to  Geneva  for  any- 
thing, there  were  little  steamers, — no  mortal  would  believe, 
now,  how  little  ; one  used  to  be  afraid  an  extra  basket  of 
apples  would  be  too  much  for  them,  when  the  pier  was  full  of 
market  people.  They  called  at  all  the  places  along  the  north 
shore,  mostly  for  country  folks  ; and  often  their  little  cabins 
were  quite  empty.  English  people  thought  the  lake  of  Gen- 
eva  too  dull,  if  they  had  ever  more  than  an  hour  of  it. 

It  chanced  so,  one  day,  when  we  were  going  from  Vevay  to 
.Geneva.  It  was  hot  on  the  deck,  and  we  all  went  down  into 
the  little  cabin,  which  the  waves  from  the  paddle  wheels 
rushed  past  the  windows  of,  in  lovely  wild  masses  of  green 
and  silver.  There  was  no  one  in  the  cabin  but  ourselves  (that 
is  to  say,  papa,  mamma,  old  Anne,  and  me),  and  a family 
whom  we  supposed,  rightly,  to  be  American,  of  the  best  sort. 
A mother  with  three  daughters,  and  her  son,— he  in  charge 
of  them  all,  perhaps  of  five  or  six  and  twenty  ; his  sisters 
younger  ; the  mother  just  old  enough  to  he  their  mother ; all 
of  them  quietly  and  gracefully  cheerful.  There  was  the  cabin 
table  betw’een  us,  covered  with  the  usual  Swiss  news  about 
nothing,  and  an  old  caricature  book  or  two.  The  waves  went 
on  rushing  by  ; neither  of  the  groups  talked,  but  I noticed 
that  from  time  to  time  the  young  American  cast  somewhat 
keen,  though  entirely  courteous,  looks  of  scrutiny  at  my  father 
and  mother. 

In  a few  minutes  after  I had  begun  to  notice  these  looks, 
he  rose,  with  the  sweetest  quiet  smile  I ever  saw  on  any  face 
(unless,  perhaps,  a nun’s,  when  she  has  some  grave  kindness 
to  do),  crossed  to  our  side  of  the  cabin,  and  addressing  him- 
self to  my  father,  said,  with  a true  expression  of  great  glad- 
ness, and  of  frank  trust  that  his  joy  would  be  understood, 
that  he  knew  who  we  were,  was  most  thankful  to  have  met 
us,  and  that  he  prayed  permission  to  introduce  his  mother 
and  sisters  to  us. 

The  bright  eyes,  the  melodious  voice,  the  perfect  manner, 
the  simple,  but  acutely  flattering,  words,  won  my  father  in  an 
instant.  The  New  Englander  sat  down  beside  us,  his  mother 
and  sisters  seeming  at  once  also  to  change  the  steamer’s 


423 


PB^TERITA. 


cabin  into  a reception  room  in  their  own  home.  The  rest  of 
the  time  till  we  reached  Geneva  passed  too  quicklj"  ; we 
arranged  to  meet  in  a day  or  two  agaiD,  at  St.  Martin’s. 

And  thus  I became  possessed  of  my  second  friend,  after 
Dr.  John  Brown ; and  of.  my  first  real  tutor,  Charles  Eliot 
Norton. 


CHAPTEK  m. 

l’esterelle. 

Sallenches,  Savoy,  Wi  September,  1888. 

The  meeting  at  St.  Martin’s  with  Norton  and  his  family 
was  a very  happy  one.  Entirely  seusible  and  amiable,  all 
of  them  ; with  the  farther  elasticity  and  acuteness  of  the 
Americau  intellect,  and  no  taint  of  American  ways.  Charles 
himself,  a man  of  the  highest  natural  gifts,  in  their  kind  ; 
observaut  and  critical  rather  than  imaginative,  but  with  an 
all-pervading  sympathy  and  sensibility,  absolutely  free  from 
envy,  ambition,  or  covetousness  : * a scholar  from  liis  cradle, 
not  only  now  a man  of  the  world,  but  a gentleman  of  the 
world,  whom  the  highest  born  and  best  bred  of  every  nation, 
from  the  Bed  Indian  to  the  White  Austrian,  would  recognize 
in  a moment,  as  of  their  caste. 

In  every  branch  of  classical  literature  he  was  my  superior ; 
knew  old  English  writers  better  than  I, — much  more,  old 
French  ; and  had  active  fellowship  and  close  friendship  with 
the  then  really  progressive  leaders  of  thought  in  his  own 
country,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Emerson. 

All  the  sympathy,  and  all  the  critical  subtlety,  of  his  mind 
had  been  given,  not  only  to  the  reading,  but  to  the  trial  and 


* I mean,  covetousness  of  beautiful  tilings,  the  only  sort  that  is 
possible  to  people  like  Charles  Norton  or  me.  He  gave  me  his  best 
Greek  “ Fortune,”  a precious  little  piece  of  flying  marble,  with  her  feet 
on  the  world,  engraved  with  hexagonal  tracery  like  a honeycomb.  We 
both  love  its  honey — but  best,  given  by  each  other. 


L'ESTERELLE. 


423 


following  out  of  the  whole  theory  of  “ Modern  Painters ; ” so 
that,  as  I said,  it  was  a real  joy  for  him  to  meet  me,  and  a 
very  bright  and  singular  one  for  both  of  us,  when  I knocked 
at  his  door  in  the  Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc  at  five  in  the  morn- 
isg  ; and  led  him,  as  the  roselight  flushed  the  highest  snow, 
up  the  winding  path  among  the  mountain  meadows  of  Sal- 
lenches. 

I can  see  them  at  this  moment,  those  mountain  meadows, 
if  I rise  from  my  writing-table,  and  open  the  old  barred  valves 
of  the  corner  window  of  the  Hotel  Bellevue  ; — yes,  and  there 
is  the  very  path  we  climbed  that  day  together,  apparently  un- 
changed. But  on  what  seemed  then  the  everlasting  hills,  be- 
yond which  the  dawn  rose  cloudless,  and  on  the  heaven  in 
which  it  rose,  and  on  all  that  w^e  that  day  knew,  of  human 
mind  and  virtue, — how  great  the  change,  and  .sorrowful,  I 
cannot  measure,  and,  in  this  place,  I will  not  speak. 

That  morning  gave  to  me,  I said,  my  first  tutor  for  Dr. 
John  Brown,  however  far  above  me  in  general  power,  and  in 
the  knowledge  proper  to  his  own  profession,  yet  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  affection  liked  everything  I wrote,  for  what  was 
true  in  it,  however  imperfectly  or  faultfully  expressed  : but 
Norton  saw  all  my  weaknesses,  measured  all  my  narrownesses, 
and,  from  the  first,  took  serenely,  and  as  it  seemed  of  neces- 
sity, a kind  of  paternal  authority  over  me,  and  a right  of  guid- 
ance though  the  younger  of  the  two, — and  always  admit- 
ting my  full  power  in  its  own  kind;  nor  only  admitting,  but 
in  the  prettiest  way  praising  and  stimulating.  It  was  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  speak  to  anyone  he  cared  for,  without 
some  side-flash  of  witty  compliment ; and  to  me,  his  infinitely 
varied  and  loving  praise  became  a constant  motive  to  exertion, 
and  aid  in  effort : yet  he  never  allowed  me  in  the  slightest 
violation  of  the  laws,  either  of  good  writing,  or  social  pru- 
dence, without  instant  blame  or  warning. 

I was  entirely  conscious  of  his  rectorial  power,  and  affec- 
tionately submissive  to  it ; so  that  he  might  have  done  anj'- 


* Gordon  was  only  my  master  in  Greek,  and  in  common  sense  ; he 
never  criticised  my  books,  and,  I suppose,  rarely  read  them. 


424 


PRjETERITA. 


tliiug  with  me,  but  for  the  unhappy  difference  in  our  innate, 
and  unchangeable,  political  faiths. 

Since  that  day  at  Sallenches  it  has  become  a matter  of  the 
most  curious  speculation  to  me,  what  sort  of  soul  Charles 
Norton  would  have  become,  if  he  had  had  the  blessing  to  be 
born  an  English  Tory,  or  a Scotch  Jacobite,  or  a French  Gen- 
tilhomme,  or  a Savoyard  Count.  I think  I should  have  liked 
him  best  to  have  been  a Savoyard  Count ; say.  Lord  of  the 
very  Tower  of  Sallenches,  a quarter  of  a mile  above  me  at  the 
opening  of  the  glen, — habitable  yet,  and  inhabited  ; it  is  half 
hidden  by  its  climbing  grapes.  Then,  to  have  read  the  “Fio- 
retti  di  San  Francesco,”  (which  he  found  out,  New  Englander 
though  he  was,  before  I did,)  in  earliest  boyhood ; then  to 
have  been  brought  into  instructively  grievous  collision  with 
Commerce,  Liberty,  and  Evangelicalism  at  Geneva  ; then  to 
have  learned  Political  Economy  from  Carlyle  and  me ; and 
finally  devoted  himself  to  write  the  History  of  the  Bishops  of 
Sion  ! What  a grand,  happy,  consistent  creature  he  would 
have  been, — while  now  he  is  as  hopelessly  out  of  gear  and 
place,  over  in  the  States  there,  as  a runaway  star  dropped  into 
Purgatory  ; and  twenty  times  more  a slave  than  the  blackest 
nigger  he  ever  set  his  white  scholars  to  fight  the  South  for ; 
because  all  the  faculties  a black  has  may  be  fully  developed 
by  a good  master  (see  Miss  Edgeworth’s  story  of  the  grateful 
Negro),'* — while  only  about  the  thirtieth  or  fortieth  part  of 
Charles  Norton’s  effective  contents  and  capacity  are  beneficially 
spent  in  the  dilution  of  the  hot  lava,  and  fructification  of  the 
hot  ashes,  of  American  character  ; — which  are  overwhelming, 
borne  now  on  volcanic  air, — the  life  of  Scotland,  England, 
France,  and  Italy.  I name  Scotland  first,  for  reasons  which 
will  be  told  in  next  “ Prseterita,” — “Joanna’s  Care.”  Mean- 


* I showed  the  valley  of  Chamoiiiii,  and  the  “ Pierre-a-Bot  ” above 
Neuchatel,  to  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  and  her  pretty  little  daughter 
Georgie, — when  Georgie  was  about  sixteen,  and  wouldn’t  let  me  say  a 
word  against  Uncle  Tom  ; howbeit,  that  story  of  the  Grateful  Negro, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Othello,  contain,  any  of  the  three,  more,  alike 
worldly  and  heavenly,  wisdom  than  would  furnish  three  “Uncle  Tom’s 
Cabins.” 


L'ESTERELLE. 


425 


time,  here  is  the  last  letter  I have  from  Norton,  showing  how 
we  have  held  hands  since  that  first  day  on  Geneva  lake. 

“ Shady  Hill,  April  Wi,  1887. 

It  is  very  good  of  you,  my  dearest  Ruskin,  to  send  me 
such  a long,  pleasant  letter,  not  punishing  me  for  my  silence, 
but  trusting  to  — 

‘ My  thought,  whose  love  for  you, 

Though  woi’ds  come  hindmost,  holds  his  rank  before.’ 

You  are  doing  too  much,  and  your  letter  gives  me  a fear  lest, 
out  of  care  for  me,  you  added  a half-hour  of  effort  to  the  work 
of  a too  busy  day.  How  long  it  is  since  I first  began  to  preach 
prudence  to  you  ! and  my  preaching  has  availed  about  as  much 
as  the  sermons  in  stones  avail  to  convert  the  hard-hearted. 
Well,  we  are  glad  to  take  each  other  as  we  are,  you  ever  im- 
prudent, I ever (I  leave  the  word  to  your  mercy). 

“ The  last  number  of  ‘ Prseterita  ’ pleased  me  greatly.  There 
was  a sweet  tone  in  it,  such  as  becomes  the  retrospect  of  a wise 
man  as  he  summons  the  scenes  of  past  life  before  his  eyes  ; 
the  clearness,  the  sharp-cut  outline  of  your  memories  is  a won- 
der, and  their  fulness  of  light  and  color.  My  own  are  very 
different.  I find  the  outlines  of  many  of  them  blurred,  and 
theii;  colors  faint.  The  loss  that  came  to  me  fifteen  years 
ago  included  the  loss  of  vividness  of  memory  of  much  of  my 
youth. 

“ The  winter  has  been  long  and  hard  with  us.  Even  yet 
there  are  snow  banks  in  shady  places,  and  not  yet  is  there  a 
sign  of  a leaf.  Even  the  snowdrops  are  hardly  venturing 
out  of  the  earth.  But  the  birds  have  come  back,  and  to-day 
I hear  the  woodpeckers  knocking  at  the  doors  of  the  old  trees 
to  find  a shelter  and  home  for  the  summer.  We  have  had 
the  usual  winter  pleasures,  and  all  m}^  children  have  been 
well,  though  Lily  is  always  too  delicate,  and  ten  days  hence  I 
part  with  her  that  she  may  go  to  England  and  try  there  to 
escape  her  summer  cold.  She  goes  out  under  Lowell’s 
charge,  and  will  be  with  her  mother’s  sister  and  cousins  in 
England.  My  three  girls  have  just  come  to  beg  me  to  go  out 


426 


PR^TEBITA, 


Avitli  them  for  a walk.  So,  good-by.  I will  write  soon  again. 
Don’t  you  write  to  me  when  you  are  tired.  I let  my  eyes 
rest  for  an  instant  on  Turner’s  sunset,  and  your  sunrise  from 
Herne  Hill,  which  hang  before  me  ; and  with  a heart  full  of 
loving  thanks  to  you, 

“I  am  ever 

“ Your  affectionate, 

“ C.  E.  N. 

“ My  best  love  to  Joan, — to  whom  I mean  to  write.” 

Somewhat  more  of  Joan  (and  Charles  also)  I have  to  tell,  as 
I said,  in  next  “ Prseterita.” 

I cannot  go  on,  here,  to  tell  the  further  tale  of  our  peace 
and  war ; for  the  fates  wove  for  me,  but  a little  while  after 
they  brought  me  that  friend  to  Sallenches  glen,  another  net 
of  Love ; in  which  alike  the  warp  and  woof  were  of  deeper 
colors. 

Soon  after  I returned  home,  in  the  eventful  year  1858,  a 
lady  wrote  to  me  from — somewhere  near  Green  Street,  W., 
— saying  as  people  sometimes  did,  in  those  days,  that  she  saw 
I was  the  only  sound  teacher  in  Art ; but  this  farther,  very 
seriously,  that  she  wanted  her  children — two  girls  and  a boy 
— taught  the  beginnings  of  Art  rightly  ; especially  the  younger 
girl,  in  whom  she  thought  I might  find  some  power  worth 
developing : would  I come  and  see  her  ? I thought  I should 
rather  like  to ; so  I went,  to  near  Green  Street ; and  found 
the  mother — the  sort  of  person  I expected,  but  a good  deal 
more  than  I expected,  and  in  all  sorts  of  w'ays.  Extremely 
pretty  still,  herself,  nor  at  all  too  old  to  learn  many  things  ; 
but  mainly  anxious  for  her  children.  Emily,  the  elder 
daughter,  wasn’t  in  ; but  Rosie  was, — should  she  be  sent  for 
to  the  nursery  ? Yes,  I said,  if  it  would  not  tease  the  child, 
she  might  be  sent  for.  So  presently  the  drawing-room  door 
opened,  and  Rosie  came  in,  quietly  taking  stock  of  me  wdth 
her  blue  eyes  as  she  walked  across  the  room  ; gave  me  her 
hand,  as  a good  dog  gives  its  paw,  and  then  stood  a little 


L'ESTERELLE, 


427 


back.  Nine  years  old  on  3d  January,  1858,  thus  now  rising 
tovvard  ten  ; neither  tall  nor  short  for  her  age  ; a little  stiff  in 
her  way  of  standing.  The  eyes  rather  deep  blue  at  that 
time,  and  fuller  and  softer  than  afterward.  Lips  perfectly 
lovely  in  profile  ; a little  too  wide,  and  hard  in  edge,  seen  in 
front,  the  rest  of  the  featui-es  what  a fair,  Avell-bred  Irish 
girl’s  usually  are  ; the  hair,  perhaps,  more  graceful  in  short 
curl  round  the  forehead,  and  softer  than  one  sees  often  ; in 
the  close-bound  tresses  above  the  neck. 

I thought  it  likeh^  she  might  be  taught  to  draw  a little,  if 
she  would  take  time  ; I did  not  expect  her  to  take  pain^,  and 
told  her  mother  so,  at  once.  Kosie  says  never  a word,  but 
we  continue  to  take  stock  of  each  other.  “ I thought  you  so 
ugly,’"  she  told  me  afterward.  She  did  not  quite  mean  that ; 
but  only,  her  mother  having  talked  much  of  my  “ greatness  ” 
to  her,  she  had  expected  me  to  be  something  like  Garibaldi, 
or  the  Elgin  Theseus  : and  was  extremely  disappointed. 

I expressed  myself  as  ready  to  try  what  I could  make  of 
Rosie  ; only  I couldn’t  come  every  other  day  all  the  way  in  to 
Green  Street.  Mamma  asked  wTat  sort  of  a road  there  was 
to  Denmark  Hill  ? I explained  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of 
its  ramifications  round  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  and  how'  one 
w'as  quite  in  the  country  as  soon  as  one  got  past  the  triangu- 
lar field  at  Champion  Hill.  And  the  wildernesses  of  the  Obe- 
lisk having  been  mapped  out,  and  determined  to  be  passable, 
the  day  was  really  appointed  for  first  lesson  at  Denmark 
Hill — and  Emily  came  with  her  sister. 

Elilily  was  a perfectly  sweet,  serene,  delicately-chiselled  mar- 
ble nymph  of  fourteen,  softly  dark-eyed,  rightly  tender  and 
graceful  in  all  she  did  and  said.  I never  saw  such  a faculty 
for  the  aiTangement  of  things  beautifully,  in  any  other  human 
being.  If  she  took  up  a handful  of  fiowers,  they  fell  out  of  her 
hand  in  WTeathed  jewelleiy  of  color  and  form,  as  if  they  had 
been  sowm,  and  had  blossomed,  to  live  together  so,  and  no 
otherwise.  Her  mother  had  the  same  gift,  but  in  its  more 
witty,  thoughtful,  and  scientific  range  ; in  Emily  it  was  pure 
wild  instinct.  For  an  Irish  girl,  she  was  not  witty,  for  she 
could  not  make  a mistake  ; one  never  laughed  at  what  she  said. 


428 


PR^TERITA. 


but  the  room  was  brighter  for  it.  To  Kose  and  me  she  soon 
became  no  more  Emily,  but  “ Wisie,”  named  after  my  dead 
Wisie.  All  the  children,  and  their  hither,  loved  animals  ; — 
my  first  sight  of  papa  was  as  he  caressed  a green  popinjay 
which  was  almost  hiding  itself  in  his  waistcoat.  Emily’s 
pony,  Swallow,  and  Rosie’s  dog,  Brnno,  will  have  their  day 
in  these  memoirs ; but  Emily’s  “Bully  ” was  the  perfectest pet 
of  all;— he  used  to  pass  half  his  day  in  the  air,  above  her 
head,  or  behind  her  shoulders,  holding  a little  tress  of  her 
long  hair  as  far  out  as  he  could,  on  the  wing. 

That  first  day,  when  they  came  to  Denmark  Hill,  there  was 
much  for  them  to  see  ; — my  mother,  to  begin  with,  and  she 
also  had  to  see  them  ; on  both  sides  the  sight  was  thought 
good.  Then  there  were  thirty  Turners,  including  the  great 
Rialto  ; half-a-dozen  Hunts  ; a beautiful  Tintoret ; iny  minerals 
in  the  study  ; the  loaded  apple  trees  in  the  orchard ; the 
glowing  peaches  on  the  old  red  garden  wall.  The  lesson  lost 
itself  that  day  in  pomiferous  talk,  with  rustic  interludes  in 
the  stables  and  pigsty.  The  pigs  especially,  it  was  observed 
were  highly  educated,  and  spoke  excellent  Irish. 

When  next  they  came,  lessons  began  duly,  with  perspec- 
tive, and  the  analysis  of  the  essential  qualities  of  triangles ! 
I must  state  here,  generally,  that  ever  since  the  year  I lost  in 
efforts  to  trisect  an  angle  myself,  education,  both  in  drawing 
and  ethics,  has  been  founded  by  me  on  the  pleasarit  and 
pretty  mysteries  of  trigonometry ! the  more  resolutely,  be- 
cause I always  found  ignorance  of  magnitudes  at  the  root  of 
modern  bad  taste  and  frivolity  ; and  farther,  because  all  the 
grace,  and  much  of  the  sentiment,  both  of  plant  and  mountain 
form,  depends  on  the  angle  of  the  cone  they  fill  with  their 
branches,  or  rise  into  with  their  cliffs. 

These  geometrical  lessons  are  always  accompanied,  when  I 
have  girls  to  teach,  by  the  most  careful  pencil  study  of  the 
forms  of  leaves  as  they  grow,  whether  on  ground  or  branch. 

In  botanical  knowledge,  and  perception  of  plant-character, 
my  eldest  Irish  pupil,  mamma,  was  miles  and  miles  my 
superior  ; and  in  powers  of  design,  both  the  children  were 
so  ; but  the  fine  methods  of  measurement  and  delineation 


L'ESTEUELLE. 


429 


were  new  to  all  of  them  ; nor  less  the  charm  of  faithfully 
represented  color,  in  full  daylight,  and  in  the  open  air. 
Having  Turner’s  mountain  drawings  of  his  best  time  beside 
us,  and  any  quantity  of  convolvuluses,  hollyhocks,  plums, 
peaches,  and  apples,  to  bring  in  from  the  garden,  the  after- 
noon hours  went  fast ; but  so  much  more  in  talk  than  work, 
tliat  I soon  found,  if  either  triangles  or  bindweeds  were  to 
come  to  anything,  it  must  be  under  the  governess’s  super- 
intendence, not  mamma’s  : and  that  I should  have  to  make 
my  way  to  Green  Street,  and  up  to  the  school-room,  after 
all,  on  at  least  two  out  of  three  of  the  lesson  days.  Both  the 
children,  to  my  extreme  satisfaction,  approved  of  this  an-ange- 
ment,  and  the  final  order  was  that  whenever  I happened  to  go 
through  Green  Street,  I should,  pay  them  a visit  in  tlie 
nursery.  Somehow,  from  that  time,  most  of  my  London 
avocations  led  me  through  Green  Street. 

It  chanced  above  all  things  well  for  me  that  their  governess 
was  a woman  of  great  sense  and  powder,  whom  the  children 
entirely  loved,  and  under  whom  mamma  put  herself,  in  the 
school-room,  no  less  meekly  than  they  ; partly  in  play,  but 
really  also  a little  subdued  b}^  the  clear  insight  of  the  fear- 
lessly frank  preceptress  into  her  own  faults.  I cannot  call 
them  “ foibles,”  for  her  native  v/it  and  strength  of  character 
admitted  none. 

Rosie  had  shortly  expressed  her  sense  of  her  governess’s 
niceness  by  calling  her  “Bun;”  and  I had  not  been  long- 
free  of  the  school-room  before  she  w^anted  a name  for  me  also, 
significant  of  like  approval.  After  some  deliberation,  she 
christened  me  “ Crumpet  ; ” then,  impressed  by  seeing  my 
gentleness  to  beggars,  canonized  me  as  “Saint  Crumpet,”  or, 
shortly  and  practically,  “ St.  C.,” — which  I remained  ever 
afterward  ; only  Emily  said  one  day  to  her  sister  that  the  C. 
did  in  truth  stand  for  “ Chrysostom.” 

The  drawing,  and  very  soon  painting,  lessons  went  on 
meantime  quite  effectively,  both  the  girls  working  with  quick 
intelligence  and  perfect  feeling  ; so  that  I was  soon  able,  with 
their  mother’s  strong  help,  to  make  them  understand  the 
essential  qualities  both  of  good  painting  and  sculpture.  Rose 


430 


pbj:eterita. 


went  on  into  geology ; but  only  far  enough  to  find  another 
play-name  for  me — “ Archegosaurns.”  This  was  meant  partly 
to  indicate  my  scientific  knowledge  of  Depths  and  Ages ; 
])arfly  to  admit  me  more  into  family  relations,  her  mother 
having  been  named,  by  her  cleverest  and  fondest  friend, 
“ Lacerta” — to  signify  that  she  had  the  grace  and  wisdom  of 
the  serpent,  without  its  poison. 

And  things  went  on, — as  good  girls  will  know  how,  through 
all  that  winter ; — in  the  spring,  the  Fates  brought  the  first 
whirlpool  into  the  current  of  them,  in  that  (I  forget  exactly 
Avhy)  it  was  resolved  that  they  should  live  by  the  Cascine  of 
Florence  in  the  spring,  and  on  the  Lung’  Arno,  instead  of  in 
the  Park  by  the  Serpentine.  But  there  was  the  comfort  for 
me  that  Kosie  was  really  a little  sorry  to  go  away  ; and  that 
she  understood  in  the  most  curious  way  how  sorry  I was. 

Some  wise,  and  prettily  mannered,  people  have  told  me  I 
should  not  say  anything  about  Rosie  at  all.  But  I am  too  old 
now  to  take  advice,  and  I won’t  have  this  following  letter — 
tlie  first  she  ever  wrote  me — moulder  away,  when  I can  read 
it  no  more,  lost  to  all  loving  hearts. 

Nice,  Monday^  March 

Dearest  S'h  Crumpet, — I am  so  sorry — I couldn’t  write  be- 
fore, there  wasn’t  one  bit  of  time — I am  so  sorry  you  were 

di^sap^^ointed — I only  got  yr  letter  yesterday  (Sund.a}^),  & we 

only  got  to  Nice  late  on  Saturday  afternoon— So  I have  got 
up  so  early  this  morning  to  try  & get  a clear  hour  before 
breakfast  to  wnate  to  you,  which  you  see  I’m  doing — So  you 
thoLiglit  of  us,  dear  S*^.  Crumpet,  A we  too  tliought  so  much 
of  you — Thank  you  very  much  for  the  Diaiy  letter  ; it  was 
so  nice  of  you  to  w’rite  so  long  a one — I have  so  much  to  tell 
you  too  Archigosaurus  so  I will  begin  from  Dover,  & tell 
w’hat  befel  us  up  to  Nice — Emily  asks  me  to  say  that  she 
did  a picture  at  Dover  of  Dover  Castle  in  a fog — I think  it 
was  to  please  you — 'Well  we  had  a roughish  passage,  but  we^ 


* I leave  pauses  where  the  old  pages  end. — J,  R. 


UESTERELLE. 


431 


sat  on  deck  & didn’t  mind — We  thought  & talked  about 
you — Every  great  wave  that  came  we  called  a ninth  wave  and 
we  thought  how  pleasant  it  w^  be  to  sit  in  a storm  and  draw 
them,  but  I think  if  you  had  wanted  it  done  I’d  have  tryed  to 
do  it  S^  Crumpet — Tliere  ^vas  what  do  you  think  at  the  prow 
of  our  steamer — ^yr  brother  Archigosaurus,  an  alligator,  and 
we  said  it  was  you — Well  so  we  got  to  Calais,  breakfasted  at 
the  Table  d’Hdte  there,  and  then  began  that  weary  railroad 
journey  from  Calais  to  Paris — The  scenery  was  just  the  same 
all  the  way — I suppose  you  know  it — Those  long  straight 
rows  of  poplars  cut  even  at  the  tops  & flat  uninteresting 

countiy.  I drew  the  po^^lars  in  perspective  for  j'ou  St  Crum- 
IDet — We  got  to  Paris  on  Friday  evening  & stayed  till 

AVednesday — No,  I couldn’t  I tell  you,  there  wasn’t  one  bit  of 
time  or  do  you  think  I would  not  have  seized  it  directly  for 
I know  yr  thinking  why  didn’t  she  write — Its  too  long  to  say 
all  we  did  & didn’t  do  in  Paris,  so  I’ll  only  tell  about  the 
Louvre  and  Notre  Dame.  We  went  to  the  Louvre.  Oh  S\ 
Crumpet  how  we  thought  of  you  there — How  we  looked  and 
talked  about  the  Titians  you  told  us  to  look  at  particularly 
the  glass  ball  one  & the  white  Rabbit — Yes  we  looked  so 
much  at  them  and  we  did,  all  of  us,  think  them  so  very  beau- 
tiful— I liked  two  portraits  of  Titian’s  of  two  dark  gentlemen 
with  earnest  eyes  better  than  any  I think.  W'e  thought  his 
skins  (I  mean  the  skins  he  made  his  picture-people  have)  so 
very  beautifully  done  & we  looked  at  the  pinks  at  the  corners 
of  the  eyes  & thought  of  the  Portrait  of  Lord  Bute’s  & you 
again  St  Crumpet.  We  liked  the  picture  of  Paul  Veronese 

of  the  children  playing  with  the  dog  very  much  I think  one 
of  them  the  most  prominent  with  dark  eyes  & not  looking  at 
the  dog  is  very  beautiful.  AYhy  does  Paul  Veronese  put  his 
own  family  in  the  pictures  of  sacred  subjects,  I wonder? 
I liked  the  little  puppy  in  the  boys  arms  trying  to  get  away 
— The  statues  in  the  Louvre  I think  most  beautiful.  Is  it 
wrong  SK  Crumpet  to  like  that  noble  Venus  Victrix  as  well 
as  Titian  If  it  is,  am  I a hardened  little  tinner  ? Oh,  but 


432 


PR^TERITA. 


they  are  so  beautiful  those  statues  there’s  one  of  a Venus 
leaning  against  a tree  with  a Lacerta  running  up  it — Notre 
Dame  they  are  spoiling  as  quick  as  they  can  by  colouring 
those  grand  old  pillars  with  ugly  daubs  of  green  and  yellow 
etc.  Is  not  that  “ light  ” in  the  French  ? * It’s  a bore 
saying  all  we  thought  of  Paris,  I must  get  on  to  the  moun- 
tains not  to  say  Alps — Don’t  be  Kinfishery  f dear  S‘.  Crum- 
pet ; how  good  it  was  of  you  to  give  yr  Turners  that  you  love 
so  much  to  the  Oxford  Museum  From  Paris  we  started  early 
on  Wednesday  morning  & travelled  all  day  & all  the  night  in 
the  train — Yes  you  would  have  said  “ Poor  Posie  ” I was 
bored  But  we  got  over  it  very  well — It  was  so  pleasant  to  be 
running  after  the  sun  to  the  south  (Dont  be  Kinglishery)  & 
awaking  at  about  5 in  the  morning  to  see  long  plains  of  grey- 
headed silvery  olives  and  here  and  there  pink  perky  peach 
trees  dancing  among  them — And  there  were  groups  of  dark 
cool  cypress  trees  pointing  upwards,  & hills  & grey  rocks 
sloping  to  the  sea — the  Mediterranean  So  we  shook  off  our 
sleepiness,  at  least  Papa  Mama  and  I did  for  Emily  k Adele 
still  slept  ; & saw  behind  those  peaks  of  craggy  hills  a pink 
smile  coming  in  the  sky  telling  us  that  the  morning  had  come 
really  at  last  So  we  watched  & suddenly  there  rose  (popped 
w‘*  be  a better  word  for  it  really  rose  in  one  instant)  such  a 

sun — “ nor  dim,  nor  red  ” (you  know  the  verse)  & then 
dipped  back  again  below  the  hills  It  was  so  beautiful — But 
I shocked  Mama  by  saying  “ Jack  in  the  box  ” which  awoke 
Emily  who  declared  of  course  she  had  been  wide  awake  and 
had  seen  it  all.  Why  do  people  always  do  that,  S‘.  Crumpet  ? 
Tliis  was  just  before  we  came  to  Marseilles.  It  had  been  snow- 
ing the  day  befoj-e  & it  was  nice  to  go  to  sleep  k wake  up  in  the 
summer — We  got  to  Toulon  and  there  we  spent  the  day  k 
oh  Archigosaurus  we  saw  so  many  Lacertas  there  ; again  we 


♦ Referring  to  a debate  over  Mrs.  Browning’s  poem  in  defence  of 
them ; the  one  in  wliich  she  says,  rightly,  that  they  are  no  more 
“ light  ” than  a rifle-ball  is. 

f King^^XiQvy . Sitting  sulkily  on  a branch. 


UE8TERELLE, 


433 


thought  of  you — How  can  you  wish  to  be  a parrot  * — are  you 
not  our  saint — You  wouldn’t  look  a bit  nice  in  a gold  laced 
cap  ; don’t  you  know  blue  is  the  colour  you  should  w^ear. 
At  Toulon  it  was  like  July — I don’t  like  such  heat — Trans- 
plantation & scorching  is  too  much  for  an  Irish  rose — But  I 

sat  with  Mama  and  Emily  on  a rock  & sketched  Toulon  Har- 
bour (or  rather  tried  to)  for  you  S\  Crumpet.  Then  the  next 
we  posted,  the  country  was  so  beautiful  some  of  it  & towards 
evening  we  saw  snowy  peaks,  they  were  the  mountains  of 
Savoy.  I was  pretty  tired  that  night  & we  had  to  sleep  at 
Frejus  such  a disagreeable  place.  The  next  day  we  had  six 
horses  to  our  carriage  for  it  was  a hilly  road.  We  walked 
about  two  hours  of  the  way  over  the  hills  f You  know  what 
sort  of  a view  there  was  at  the  top,  S‘.  Crumpet  & how  one 
stands  & stares  & says  nothing  because  the  words  of  Grand 
Glorious,  Beautiful  etc  cannot  in  one  quarter  express  what 
one  thinks.  You  the  author  of  M-Ps  c'^  describe  it  Irish  roses 
can’t.  But  I can  tell  you  how  my  cousins  the  moorland  roses 
nodded  at  me  as  I passed  and  how  they  couldn’t  understand 
why  Iiish  hedge  roses  bloomed  in  July  instead  of  March 

I can  tell  you  how  the  fields  were  white  with  Narcissi,  how 
the  roads  were  edged  with  mauve-coloured  anemones  & how 
the  scarlet  anemones  stood  up  in  the  meadows  tantalizing  me  in 
the  carriage  so  much  because  I wanted  to  feel  them  And 
there  were  myrtles  (wild)  growing  close  to  the  blue  Mediter- 
ranean & Mama  lay  down  on  them  by  the  seaside  at  Cannes 
while  Papa  and  I were  talking  to  a perfectly  deaf  old  French 
fisherman  who  gave  his  % to  me  as  he  caught  them  putting 
them  half  alive  into  my  hands,  oh,  you  w^*  have  been  alive 

* I suppose  I liad  not  expressed  this  farther  condition,  of  being"  her 
father's  parrot. 

f The  pass  of  the  Esterelle,  between  Frejus  and  Nice  ; more  beauti- 
ful, always,  to  me,  than  all  the  groves  and  cliffs  of  the  Eiviera. — J.  E., 
1889. 

t “ Fish  ” to  be  understood;  also  that  the  fisherman  was  not  “per- 
fectly ” deaf,  for  papa  could  not  have  talked  with  his  eyes  only,  as  Eose 
could. 


28 


43i 


PBJSTERITA. 


there  Archigosaurus.  How  I wish  you  had  been  there.  Well 
we  got  here  (Nice)  on  Saturday  evening  & we  climbed  up  an 
old  Roman  Ampitheatre  and  saw  of  all  sunsets  the  most  glo- 
rious. We  said  it  was  like  Light  in  the  West,  Beauvais,  and 
again  we  thought  of  you  Oh  S‘.  Crumpet  I think  of  you  so 
much  & of  all  your  dearnesses  to  me  I wish  so  very  much 

that  you  were  happy — God  can  make  you  so — We  will  try 
not  to  forget  all  3^011  taught  ns — It  was  so  nice  of  you. 
Thank  you  so  much  from  both  of  us. — Mama  is  very  glad  you 
went  to  Dr.  Ferguson  She  says  you  must  not  give  him  up. 
How  veiy  kind  of  you  to  see  & talk  to  our  old  man  Cer- 
tainly the  name  is  not  beautiful  We  have  all  read  3'our  let- 
ter & we  all  care  for  it.  That  was  indeed  a “ dear  Ii’ish  la- 
bourer.” I like  him  so  much  ; such  a nice  letter.  I hope 
M"  & Ruskiii  are  well  now.  Will  you  give  them  our  love 
please  & take  for  yourself  as  much  as  ever  3’ou  please.  It 
will  be  a great  deal  if  you  deign  to  take  all  we  send  }^ou.  I 
like  Nice  but  I don’t  much  like  being  transplanted  except 
going  home.  I am  ever  }^our  rose. 

Postscript. 

Yes,  write  packets — trunks,  & we  shall  like  them  so  much. 
Indeed  I couldn’t  wiite  before,  I’ll  try  to  write  again.  You 
must  see  how  we  think  of  you  k talk  of  }'ou — rose  posie. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Joanna’s  c.vee. 

The  mischances  which  have  delayed  the  sequence  of  “ Prae- 
terita”  must  modify  somewhat  also  its  intended  order.  I 
leave  Rosie’s  letter  to  tell  what  it  can  of  the  beginning  of  hap- 
piest days  ; but  omit,  for  a little  while,  the  further  record  of 
them, — of  the  shadows  which  gathered  around  them,  and  in- 
creased, in  my  father’s  illness  ; and  of  the  lightning  which 
struck  him  down  in  death — so  sudden,  that  I find  it  extremely 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


435 


difficult,  in  looking  back,  to  realize  tbe  state  of  mind  in  wliicii 
it  left  either  my  mother  or  me.  My  own  principal  feeling 
was  certainly  anxiety  for  her,  who  had  been  for  so  man^^  years 
in  every  thought  dependent  on  my  father’s  wishes,  and  with- 
drawn from  all  other  social  pleasure  as  long  as  she  could  be 
his  companion.  I scarcely  felt  the  power  I had  over  her,  my- 
self ; and  ^vas  at  first  amazed  to  find  my  own  life  suddenly 
becoming  to  her  another  ideal ; and  that  new  hope  and  pride 
were  possible  to  her,  in  seeing  me  take  command  of  my 
father’s  fortune,  and  permitted  by  him,  from  his  grave,  to 
cany  out  the  theories  I had  formed  for  my  political  work, 
with  unrestricted  and  deliberate  energy. 

My  mother’s  perfect  health  of  mind,  and  vital  religious 
faith,  enabled  her  to  take  all  the  good  that  was  left  to  her,  in 
the  world,  while  she  looked  in  secure  patience  for  the  heavenly 
future  : but  there  was  immediate  need  for  some  companion- 
ship which  might  lighten  the  burden  of  the  days  to  her. 

I have  never  yet  spoken  of  the  meinbers  of  my  grand- 
mother’s family,  who  either  remained  in  Galloway,’^  or  were 
associated  with  1113^  early  da^^s  in  London.  Quite  one  of  the 
dearest  of  them  at  this  time,  was  Mrs.  Agnew,  born  Catherine 
Tweddale,  and  named  Catherine  after  her  aunt,  my  fatlier’s 
mother.  She  had  now  for  some  years  been  living  in  widow- 
hood ; her  little  daughter,  Joan,  only  five  years  old  v.dien  her 
father  died,  having  grown  up  in  their  pretty  old  house  at 
Wigtown, f in  the  simplicity  of  entirely  natural  and  contented 
life  : and,  though  again  and  again  under  the  stress  of  domes- 
tic sorrow,  untellable  in  the  depth  of  the  cup  which  the  death- 
angels  filled  for  the  child,  j’et  in  such  dail}^  happiness  as  her 
own  bright  and  loving  nature  secured  in  her  relations  wuth  all 
those  around  her ; and  in  the  habits  of  childish  play,  or  edu- 
cation, then  common  in  the  rural  towns  of  South  Scotland  : 


* See  “Prffiterita,”  vol.  i.,  p,  62. 

f Now  palled  down  and  tlie  site  taken  for  tlie  new  county  hnildings. 
The  house  as  it  once  stood  is  seen  in  the  centre  of  the  wood-cat  at  page 
6 of  Gordon  Fraser's  Gnide,  with  tlie  Stewartry  hills  in  the  distance. 
I have  seldom  seen  a truer  rendering  of  the  look  of  an  old  Scottish 
town. 


43G 


PRyETERITA. 


of  which,  let  me  say  at  once  that  there  was  greater  refinement 
in  them,  and  more  honorable  pride,  than  probably,  at  that 
time,  in  any  other  district  of  Europe  ; * a certain  pathetic 
melody  and  power  of  tradition  consecrating  nearly  every  scene 
with  some  past  light,  either  of  heroism  or  religion. 

And  so  it  chanced,  providentially,  that  at  this  moment, 
when  my  mother’s  thoughts  dwelt  constantly  on  the  past, 
there  should  be  this  child  near  us, — still  truly  a child,  in  her 
powers  of  innocent  pleasure,  but  already  so  accustomed  to 
sorrow,  that  there  was  nothing  that  could  farther  depress  her 
in  my  mother’s  solitude.  I have  not  time  to  tell  of  the  pretty 
little  ways  in  which  it  came  about,  but  they  all  ended  in  my 
driving  to  No.  1,  Cambridge  Street,  on  the  19th  April,  1864  : 

* Tlift  following  couple  of  pages,  from  “ Redgauntlet,”  put  in  very 
few  words  tlie  points  of  difference  between  them  and  the  fatally  pro- 
gressive follies  and  vanities  of  Edinburgh  : — 

‘ Come  away,  Mr.  Fairford  ; the  Edinburgh  time  is  later  than  ours,’ 
said  the  Provost. 

“ ‘And  come  away,  young  gentleman,’ said  the  Laird  : ‘I  remember 
your  father  weel,  at  the  Cross,  thirty  years  ago.  I reckon  you  are  as 
late  in  Edinburgh  as  at  London  ; fmir  o’clock  hours,  eh?  ’ 

‘ Not  quite  so  degenerate,’  replied  Fairford  ; ‘but  certainly  many 
Edinburgh  people  are  so  ill-advised  as  io  postpone  their  dinner  iiW  three, 
that  they  may  have  full  time  to  answer  their  London  correspondents.’ 

“ ‘ London  correspondents  !’  said  Mr.  Maxwell ; ‘ and  pray,  wdiat  the 
devil  have  the  people  of  Auld  Reekie  to  do  with  London  correspondents?’ 
“ ‘ The  tradesmen  must  have  their  goods,’  said  Fairford. 

“ ‘ Can  they  not  buy  our  own  Scottish  manufa(;tures,  and  pick  their 
customers’  pockets  in  a more  patriotic  manner?’ 

“ ‘ Tlien  the  ladies  must  have  fashions,’  said  Fairford. 

“ ‘Can  they  not  busk  the  plaid  over  their  heads,  as  their  mothers 
did?  A tartan  screen,  and  once  a year  a new  cockernony  from  Paris, 
shou'd  serve  a countess  ; but  ye  have  not  many  of  them  left,  I think. 
Mareschal,  Airley,  Winton,  AYemyss,  Balmerino — ay,  ay,  the  countesses 
and  ladies  of  quality  will  scarce  take  up  too  much  of  your  ball-room 
tioor  with  their  quality  hoops  nowadays.’ 

“ ‘There  is  no  want  of  crowding,  however,  sir,’  said  Fairford  ; ‘ they 
begin  to  talk  of  a new  Assembly  Room.’ 

“ ‘ A new  Assembly  Room  ! ’ said  the  old  Jacobite  Laird.  ‘ Uraph— 
I mind  quartering  three  hundred  men  in  the  Assembly  Room  you  hare. 
But.  come,  come  : I’ll  ask  no  more  questions — the  answers  all  smell  of 
new  lords,  new  lands.’  ” 


JOANNA^ S CARE. 


437 


where  her  uncle  (my  cousin,  John  Tweddale)  brought  her  up 
to  the  drawing-room  to  me,  saying,  “This  is  Joan.” 

I had  seen  her  three  years  before,  but  not  long  enough  to 
remember  her  distinctly  : only  I had  a notion  that  she  would 
be  “ nice,”  * and  saw  at  once  that  she  was  entirely  nice,  both 
in  my  mother’s  waj^,  and  mine  ; being  now  seventeen  years 
and  some — well,  for  example  of  accuracy  and  conscience — 
forty-five  days,  old.  And  I very  thankfully  took  her  hand  out 
of  her  uncle’s,  and  received  her  in  trust,  saying— I do  not 
remember  just  what, — but  certainly  feeling  much  more 
strongly  than  either  her  uncle  or  she  did,  that  the  gift,  both 
to  my  mother  and  me,  was  one  which  we  should  not  easily 
bear  to  be  again  withdrawn.  I put  her  into  my  father’s 
carriage  at  the  door,  and  drove  her  out  to  Denmark  Hill. 
Here  is  her  own  account  of  what  followed  between  my 
mother  and  her  : — 

“ I was  received  with  great  kindness  b}"  the  dear  old  lady, 
who  did  not  inspire  me,  as  she  did  so  many  other  people, 
with  a feeling  of  awe ! We  were  the  best  of  friends,  from 
the  first.  She,  ever  most  considerate  of  what  would  please 
me,  and  make  me  happy  ; and  I,  (ever  a lover  of  old  ladies !) 
delighted  to  find  it  so  easily  possible  to  please  her. 

“ Next  morning  she  said,  ‘ Now  tell  me  frankly,  child, 
what  you  like  best  to  eat,  and  you  shall  have  it.  Don’t 
hesitate  ; sa.y  what  you’d  really  like, — for  luncheon  to-day, 
for  instance.’  I said,  truthfully,  ‘ Cold  mutton,  and  oysters’ ; 
and  this  became  a sort  of  standing  order  (in  months  with  the 
letter  r!) — greatly  to  the  cook’s  amusement. 

“ Of  course  I respectfully  called  the  old  lady  ‘ 3Irs.  Raskin  ’ ; 
but  in  a day  or  two,  she  told  me  she  didn’t  like  it,  and  would 
I call  her  ‘ Aunt  ’ or  ^ Auntie  ’ ? I readily  did  so. 

“ The  days  flew  in  that  lovely  garden,  and  as  I liad  only 
been  invited  to  stay  a week,  until  Mr.  Kuskin  should  return 
home,f  I felt  miserable  wdien  he  did  come,  thinking  I must 

* And  the  word  means  more,  with  me,  than  with  Sydney  Smith  (see 
his  Memoirs)  ; but  it  means  all  that  he  does,  to  begin  with. 

f I must  have  been  going  away  somewhere  the  day  after  I brought  her 
to  Denmark  Hill. 


43S 


PRj^TEUITA. 


go  back  to  LoDclon  streets,  and  noise  ; (though  I was  always 
very  happy  with  my  good  uncle  and  aunts). 

“ So,  when  the  last  evening  came,  of  my  week,  I said,  with 
some  hesitation,  ‘ Auntie,  I had  better  go  back  to  my  uncle’s 
to-morrow  ! ’ 

“ She  flung  down  her  netting,  and  turned  sharply  round, 
saying,  ‘ Are  you  unhappy,  child  ? ’ ‘ Oh  no  ! ’ said  I,  ‘ only 

my  week  is  up,  and  I thought  it  was  time ’ 

“ I was  not  allowed  to  finish  my  sentence.  She  said, 

‘ Never  let  me  hear  you  say  anything  again  about  going  ; as 
long  as  you  are  happy  here,  stay,  and  well  send  for  your 
clothes,  and  make  arrangements  about  lessons,  and  everything 
else  here.’ 

“And  thus  it  came  about  that  I stayed  seven  years! — till  I 
married  ; going  home  now  and  then  to  Scotland,  but  always 
getting  pathetic  little  letters  there,  telling  me  to  ‘ come  back 
as  soon  as  niy  mother  could  spare  me,  that  I was  much 
missed,  and  nobody  could  ever  fill  my  place.’  And  auntie 
was  very  old  then  (not  that  she  ever  could  bear  being  called 
old,  at  ninety  !),  and  I could  not  ever  bear  the  thought  of 
leaving  her ! ” 

Thus  far  Joanie  ; nor  virtually  have  she  and  I ever  parted 
since.  I do  not  care  to  count  how  long  it  is  since  her  mar- 
riage to  Arthur  Severn  ; only  I think  her  a great  deal  prettier 
now  than  I did  then  : but  other  people  thought  her  extremely 
2)retty  then,  and  I am  certain  that  everybody the  guileless 
and  melodious  sweetness  of  the  face.  Her  first  conquest  was 
almost  on  our  threshold  ; for  half  an  hour  or  so  after  we  had 
reached  Denmark  Hill,  Carlyle  rode  up  the  front  garden,  joy- 
fully and  reverently  received  as  always  ; and  stayed  the  whole 
afternoon  ; even,  (Joan  says)  sitting  with  us  during  our  early 
dinner  at  five.  Many  a day  after  that,  he  used  to  come  ; and 
one  evening,  “in  describing  with  some  rapture  how  he  had 
once  as  a young  man  had  a delightful  trip  into  Galloway, 
‘ where  he  was  most  hospitably  entertained  in  the  town  of 
Wigtown  by  a Mr.  Tweddale,’  I (Joan)  said  quietly,  ‘ I am  so 
glad  ! That  was  my  grandfather,  and  Wigtown  is  my  native 
place  ! ’ He  turned  in  a startled,  sudden  waj%  saying,  ‘ Bless 


JO  ANNANS  CARE. 


439 


the  child,  is  that  so  ? ’ adding  some  veiy  pretty  compliments 
to  my  place  and.  its  people,  which  filled  my  heart  with  great 
pride.  And,  on  another  occasion,  after  he  had  been  to  meet 
the  Queen  at  Dean  Stanley’s,  in  describing  to  us  some  of  the 
conversation,  he  made  us  laugh  by  telling  how,  in  describing 
to  Her  Majesty  the  beauty  of  Galloway,  that  ‘he  believed 
there  was  no  finer  or  more  beautiful  drive  in  her  kingdom 
than  the  one  round  the  shore  of  the  Stewartry,  by  Gatehouse 
of  Fleet,’  he  got  so  absorbed  in  his  subject  that,  in  drawing 
his  chair  closer  to  the  Queen,  he  at  last  became  aware  he  had 
fixed  it  on  her  dress,  and  that  she  could  not  move  till  he 
withdrew  it ! Do  you  think  I may  say  farther  ” (Of  course, 
Joanie),  “that  Carlyle  as  a young  man  often  went  to  my 
great  aunt’s  (Mrs.  Church)  in  Dumfriesshire  ; and  he  has 
several  times  told  me  that  he  considered  her  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  and  kindest  women  he  had  ever  known.  On  one 
occasion  while  there,  he  went  to  the  little  Cummertrees 
Church,  where  the  then  minister  (as  a joke  sometimes  called 
‘ Daft  Davie  Gillespie  ’)  used  to  speak  his  mind  very  plainly 
from  the  pulpit,  and  while  preaching  a sermon  on  ‘ Youth 
and  Beauty  being  laid  in  the  grave,’  something  tickled 
Carlyle,  and  he  was  seen  to  smile  ; upon  which  Mr.  Gillespie 
stopped  suddenly,  looked  with  a frown  at  Carlyle  (who  was 
sitting  in  my  aunt’s  pew),  and  said,  ‘ Mistake  me  not,  young 
man  ; it  is  youth  alone  that  you  possess.’  This  was  told  to 
me,  (Joan,)  by  an  old  cousin  of  mine  who  heard  it,  and  was 
sitting  next  Carlyle  at  the  time.” 

lam  so  glad  to  be  led  back  by  Joanie  to  the  thoughts  of 
Carlyle,  as  he  showed  himself  to  her,  and  to  me,  in  those 
spring  days,  when  he  used  to  take  pleasure  in  the  quiet  of  the 
Denmark  Hill  garden,  and  to  use  all  his  influence  with  me  to 
make  me  contented  in  my  duty  to  my  mother ; which  he,  as, 
with  even  greater  insistence.  Turner,  always  told  me  was  my 
first ; — -both  of  them  seeing,  with  equal  clearness,  the  happi- 
ness of  the  life  that  was  possible  to  me  in  merely  meeting  my 
father’s  affection  and  hers,  with  the  tranquil  exertion  of*  my 
own  natural  powers,  in  the  place  where  God  had  set  me. 

Both  at  the  time,  and  ever  since,  I have  felt  bitter  remorse 


4i0 


FRMTERITA, 


that  I did  not  make  Carlyle  free  of  the  garden,  and  his  horse 
of  the  stables,  whether  we  were  at  home  or  not;  for  the  fresh 
air,  and  bright  view  of  the  Norwood  hills,  were  entirely  grate- 
ful and  healing  to  him,  when  the  little  back  garden  at  Cheyne 
Row  was  too  hot,  or  the  neighborhood  of  it  too  noisy,  for  his 
comfort. 

And  at  this  time,  nearly  every  opportunity  of  good,  and 
peace,  was  granted  in  Joan’s  coming  to  help  me  to  take  care 
of  my  mother.  She  was  perfectly  happy,  herself,  in  the  se- 
clusion of  Denmark  Hill ; while  yet  the  occasional  evenings 
spent  at  George  Richmond’s,  or  with  others  of  her  London 
friends,  (whose  circle  rapidly  widened)  enabled  her  to  bring 
back  to  my  mother  little  bits  of  gossip  which  were  entirely 
refreshing  to  both  of  us ; for  I used  to  leave  my  study  when- 
ever Joanie  came  back  from  these  expeditions,  to  watch  my 
mother’s  face  in  its  glittering  sympathy.  I think  I have  said 
of  her  before,  that  although  not  witty  herself,  her  strong 
sense  gave  her  the  keenest  enjoyment  of  kindly  humor, 
whether  in  saying  or  incident ; and  I have  seen  her  laughing, 
partly  at  Joanie  and  partly  with  her,  till  the  tears  ran  down 
her  still  brightly  flushing  cheeks.  Joan  was  never  tired  of 
telling  her  whatever  gave  her  pleasure,  nor  of  reading  to  her, 
in  quieter  time,  the  books  she  delighted  in,  against  which, 
girls  less  serenely, — nay,  less  religiously,  bred,  would  assuredly 
have  rebelled, — any  quantity,  for  instance,  of  Miss  Edgeworth 
and  Richardson. 

(I  interrupt  myself  for  a moment  to  express,  at  this  latter 
time  of  life,  the  deep  admiration  I still  feel  for  Richardson. 
The  follies  of  modern  novel  writing  render  it  impossible  for 
young  people  to  understand  the  perfection  of  the  human 
nature  in  his  conception,  and  delicacy  of  finish  in  his  dia- 
logue, rendering  all  his  greater  scenes  unsurpassable  in  their 
own  manner  of  art.  They  belong  to  a time  of  the  English 
language  in  which  it  could  express  with  precision  the  most 
delicate  phases  of  sentiment,  necessarily  now  lost  under  Amer- 
ican,’ Cockney,  or  scholastic  slang.) 

Joanie  herself  had  real  faculty  and  genius  in  all  rightly 
girlish  directions.  She  had  an  extremely  sweet  voice,  whether 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


441 


in  reading  or  singing  ; inventive  wit,  winch  was  softly  satiri- 
cal, bat  never  malicious  ; and  quite  a peculiar,  and  perfect, 
sense  of  clownish  humor,  which  never  for  an  instant  dimin- 
ished her  refinement,  but  enabled  her  to  sing  either  humor- 
ous Scotch,  or  the  brightest  Christy  Minstrel  carols,  with  a 
grace  and  animation  winch,  within  their  gentle  limits,  could 
not  be  surpassed.  She  had  a good  natural  faculty  for  draw- 
ing also,  not  inventive,  but  realistic ; so  that  she  answered  my 
first  lessons  with  serviceable  care  and  patience  ; and  was  soon 
able  to  draw  and  paint  flowers  which  were  a great  deal  liker 
the  flowers  themselves  than  my  own  elaborate  studies  ; — no 
one  said  of  them,  “ What  wonderful  drawing  ! ” but  every- 
body said,  “ How  like  a violet,  or  a buttercup ! ” At  that 
point,  however,  she  stayed,  and  yet  stays,  to  my  sorrow,  never 
having  advanced  into  landscape  drawing. 

But  very  soon,  also,  she  was  able  to  help  me  in  arranging 
my  crystals  ; and  the  day  divided  itself  between  my  mother’s 
room,  the  mineral  room,  the  garden,  and  the  drawing-room, 
with  busy  pleasures  for  every  hour. 

Then,  in  my  favorite  readings,  the  deep  interest  which,  in 
his  period  of  entirely  central  power,  Scott  had  taken  in  the 
scenery  of  the  Solway,  rendered  everything  that  Joanie  could 
tell  me  of  her  native  bay  and  its  hills,  of  the  most  living 
interest  to  me  ; and  although,  from  my  father’s  unerring 
tutorship,  I had  learned  Scott’s  own  Edinburgh  accent  with  a 
precision  which  made  the  turn  of  every  sentence  precious  to 
me,  (and,  I believe,  my  own  rendering  of  it  thoroughly  in- 
teresting, even  to  a Scottish  listener,) — yet  every  now  and 
then  Joanie  could  tell  me  something  of  old,  classic,  Galloway 
Scotch,  which  was  no  less  valuable  to  me  than  a sudden  light 
thrown  on  a chorus  in  .Slschylus  would  be  to  a Greek  scholar  ; — 
nay,  only  the  other  day  I was  entirely  crushed  by  her  inter- 
preting to  me,  for  the  first  time,  the  meaning  of  the  name  of 
the  village  of  Captain  Clutterbuck’s  residence, — Kennaquhair.'^ 

* “ Ken  na’ where ’’ ! Note  the  cunning  with  which  Scott  himself 
throws  his  reader  off  the  scent,  in  the  first  sentence  of  “ The  Monas- 
tery,” by  quoting  the  learned  Chalmers  “ for  the  derivation  of  the  word 
‘ Quhair,’  from  the  winding  course  of  the  stream  ; a definition  which 


442 


PRJETERITA. 


And  it  has  chiefly  been  owing  to  Joan’s  help, — and  even  so, 
only  within  the  last  five  or  six  years, — that  I have  fully  under- 
stood the  power,  not  on  Sir  Walter’s  mind  merely,  but  on  the 
character  of  all  good  Scotchmen,  (much  more,  good  Scotch- 
women,) of  the  two  lines  of  coast  from  Holy  Island  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  from  Annan  to  the  Mull  of  Galloway.  Between  them, 
if  the  reader  will  glance  at  any  old  map  which  gives  rivers  and 
mountains,  instead  of  railroads  and  factories,  he  will  find  that 
all  the  highest  intellectual  and  moral  powers  of  Scotland  were 
developed,  from  the  days  of  the  Douglases  at  Lochmaben,  to 
those  of  Scott  in  Edinburgh, — Burns  in  Ayr, — and  Carlyle  at 
Ecclefechan,  by  the  pa^iloral  country,  everywhere  habitable, 
but  only  by  hardihood  under  suffering,  and  patience  in 
poverty ; defending  themselves  always  against  the  northern 
Pictish  war  of  the  Highlands,  and  the  southern,  of  the  Eng- 
lish Edwards  and  Percys,  in  the  days  when  whatever  was  love- 
liest and  best  of  the  Catholic  religion  haunted  still  the — then 
not  ruins, — of  Melrose,  Jedburgh,  Dryburgh,  Kelso,  Dum- 
blane,  Dundrennan,  Hew  Abbey  of  Dumfries,  and,  above  all, 
the  most  ancient  Cave  of  Whithorn, — the  Candida  Casa  of  St. 
Ninian  ; while  perfectly  sincere  and  passionate  forms  of  Evan- 
gelicalism purified  and  brightened  the  later  characters  of 
shepherd  Cameronian  life,  being  won,  like  all  the  great  vic- 
tories of  Christianity,  by  martyrdoms,  of  which  tlie  memory 
remains  most  vivid  by  those  very  shores  where  Christianity 
was  first  planted  in  Scotland, — Whithorn  is,  I think,  only  ten 


coincides  in  a remarkable  degree  with  the  serpentine  turns  of  the 
Tweed  ” ! (“  It’s  a serpentine  turn  of  his  own,  I think  ! ” says  Joanie, 

as  I show  her  the  sentence,)  while  in  the  next  paragraph  he  gives  an 
apparently  historical  existence  to  “ the  village  of  which  we  speak,”  by 
associating  it  with  Melrose,  Jedburgh,  and  Kelso,  in  the  “ splendor  of 
foundation  by  David  I.,”  and  concludes,  respecting  the  lands  with 
which  the  king  endowed  these  wealthy  fraternities,  with  a grave  sen- 
tence, perhaps  the  most  candid  ever  written  by  a Scotsman,  of  the  cen- 
turies preceding  the  Reformation:  “In  fact,  for  several  ages  the  pos- 
sessions of  these  Abbeys  were  each  a sort  of  Goshen,  enjoying  the  calm 
light  of  peace  and  immunity,  while  the  rest  of  the  country,  occupied 
by  wild  clans  and  marauding  barons,  was  one  dark  scene  of  confusion, 
blood,  and  unremitted  outi'age.” 


JOANN.rS  CARE. 


U3 


miles  south  of  Wigtown  Bay  ; and  in  the  churchyard  of  Wig- 
town, close  to  the  old  Agnew  burying-ground,  (where  most  of 
Joanie’s  family  are  laid,)  are  the  graves  of  Margaret  Mac- 
Lachlan,  and  Margaret  Wilson,  over  which  in  rhythm  is 
recorded  on  little  square  tombstones  the  story  of  their  mar- 
tyrdom. 

It  was  only,  I repeat,  since  what  became  practically  my 
farewell  journey  in  Italy  in  1882,  that  I recovered  the  train  of 
old  associations  by  revisiting  Tweedside,  from  Coldsti-earn  up 
to  Ashestiel ; and  the  Solway  shores  from  Dumfries  to  Whit- 
horn ; and  while  what  knowledge  I had  of  southern  and 
foreign  history  then  arranged  itself  for  final  review,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  this  space  of  low  mountain  ground,  with  the  eternal 
sublimity  of  its  rocky  seashores,  of  its  stormy  seas  and  dan- 
gerous sands  ; its  strange  and  mighty  crags,  Ailsa  and  the 
Bass,  and  its  pathless  moorlands,  haunted  by  the  driving- 
cloud,  had  been  of  more  import  in  the  true  world’s  history 
than  ail  the  lovely  countries  of  the  South,  except  only  Pales- 
tine, In  my  quite  last  journey  to  Venice  I was,  I thiiik,  justly 
and  finally  impressed  with  the  sadness  and  even  weakness  of 
the  Mediterranean  coasts ; and  the  temptation  to  human 
nature,  there,  to  solace  itself  with  debasing  pleasures  ; while 
the  very  impossibility  of  either  accumulating  the  treasures,  or 
multiplying  the  dreams,  of  art,  among  those  northern  waves 
and  rocks,  left  the  spirit  of  man  strong  to  bear  the  hardships 
of  the  world,  and  faithful  to  obey  the  precepts  of  Heaven. 

It  is  farther  strange  to  me,  even  now,  on  reflection — to 
find  how  great  the  influence  of  this  double  ocean  coast  and 
Cheviot  mountain  border  was  upon  Scott’s  imagination ; 
and  how  salutary  they  were  in  withdrawing  him  from  the 
morbid  German  fancies  which  proved  so  fatal  to  Carl^de  : 
but  there  was  this  grand  original  difference  between  the 
two,  that,  with  Scott,  his  story-telling  and  singing  were  all  in 
the  joyful  admiration  of  that  past  with  which  he  could  re- 
people the  scenery  he  gave  the  working  part  of  his  day  to 
traverse,  and  all  the  sensibility  of  his  soul  to  love;*  while 


* Yet,  remember,  so  just  and  intense  is  his  perception,  and  so  stern 
liis  condemnation,  of  whatever  is  corrupt  in  the  Scottish  character,  that 


444 


PR^TERITA. 


Carlyle  s mind,  fixed  anxiously  on  the  future,  and  besides 
embarrassed  by  the  practical  pinching,  as  well  as  the  uncoji- 
fessed  shame,  of  poverty,  saw  and  felt  from  his  earliest  child- 
hood nothing  but  the  faultfulness  and  gloom  of  the  present. 

It  has  been  impossible,  hitherto,  to  make  the  modern 
reader  understand  the  vastness  of  Scott’s  true  historical 
knowledge,  underneath  its  romantic  coloring,  nor  the  con- 
centration of  it  in  the  production  of  his  eternally  great  poems 
and  romances.  English  ignorance  of  the  Scottish  dialect 
is  at  present  nearly  total ; nor  can  it  be  without  very  earnest 
effort,  that  the  melodj^  of  Scott’s  verse,  or  the  meaning  of  his 
dialogue,  can  ever  again  be  estimated.  He  must  now  be  read 
with  the  care  which  we  give  to  Chaucer  ; but  with  the  greater 
reward,  that  what  is  only  a dream  in  Chaucer,  becomes  to  us, 
understood  from  Scott,  a consummate  historical  morality  and 
truth. 

The  first  two  of  his  great  poems,  “ The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel  ” and  “ Marmion,”  are  the  re-animation  of  Border 
legends,  closing  with  the  truest  and  grandest  battle-iDiece 
that,  so  far  as  I know,  exists  in  the  wdiole  compass  of  litera- 
ture ^ ; — the  absolutely  fairest  in  justice  to  both  contending 
nations,  the  absolutely  most  beautiful  in  its  conceptions  of 
both.  And  that  the  palm  in  that  concej^tion  remains  with 
the  Scotch,  through  the  sorrow  of  their  defeat,  is  no  more 
than  accurate  justice  to  the  national  character,  which  rose 
from  the  fraternal  branches  of  the  Douglas  of  Tantallon  and 
the  Douglas  of  Dunkeld.  But, — between  Tantallon  and 

while  of  distinctly  evil  natures — Varney,  Rashleigh,  or  Lord  Dalgarno 
— he  takes  world-wide  examples, — the  unpardonable  baseness* *  of  so- 
called  respectable  or  religious  persons,  and  the  cruelties  of  entirely 
sellish  soldiers,  are  always  Scotch.  Take  for  the  highest  type  the  Lord 
Lindsay  of  “The  Abbot,”  and  for  the  worst,  Morton  in  “ The  Monastery,” 
then  the  terrible,  hecnuse  at  first  siiu  ere,  Balfour  of  Burleigh  in  “ Old 
Mortality”;  and  in  lower  kind,  the  Andrew  Fairservice  and  MacVittie 
of  “ Rob  Roy,”  the  Peter  Peebles  of  “ Redgauntlet,”  the  Glossin  of 
“Guy  Mannering.”  and  the  Saddletree  of  the  “ Heart  of  Midlothian.” 

* I include  the  literature  of  all  foreign  languages,  so  far  as  known  to 
me  : there  is  nothing  to  approach  the  finished  delineation  and  flawless 
majesty  of  conduct  in  Scott  s Floddeu. 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


445 


Dmikekl, — wliat  moor  or  mountain  is  there  over  which  the 
purple  cloud  of  Scott’s  imagination  has  not  wrapt  its  light,  in 
those  two  great  poems? — followed  by  the  entirely  heroic  en- 
chantment of  “The  Lady  of  the  Lake,”  dwelling  on  the  High- 
land virtue  which  gives  the  strength  of  clanship,  and  the 
Lowland  honor  of  knighthood,  founded  on  the  Catholic 
religion.  Then  came  the  series  of  novels,  in  which,  as  I have 
stated  elsewhere,  those  which  dealt  with  the  history  of  other 
nations,  such  as  “Ivanhoe,”  “Kenilworth,”  “Woodstock,” 
“ Quentin  Durward,”  “ Peveril  of  the  Peak,”  “ The  Betrothed  ” 
and  “ The  Crusaders,”  however  attractive  to  the  general 
world,  were  continually  weak  in  fancy,  and  false  in  prejudice  ; 
but  the  literally  Scotch  novels,  “ Waveiley,”  “Guy  Mannering,” 
“ Tlie  Antiquary,”  “Old  Mortality,”  “The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian,” “ The  Abbot,”  “ Eedgauntlet,”  and  “ Tiie  Fortunes 
of  Nigel,”  arc,  whatever  the  modern  world  may  think  of 
them,  as  faultless,  throughout,  as  human  work  can  be  : and 
eternal  examples  of  the  ineffable  art  wdiich  is  taught  by  the 
loveliest  nature  to  her  truest  children. 

Now  of  these,  observe,  “Guy  Mannering,”  “Eedgauntlet,”  a 
great  part  of  “Waverley,”  and  the  beautiful  close  of  “The  Ab- 
bot,” piss  on  the  two  coasts  of  Solway.  The  entire  power  of 
“Old  Mortality  ” rises  out  of  them,  and  their  influence  on 
Scott  is  curiously  shown  by  his  adoption  of  the  name  “ Ochil- 
tree ” for  his  bedesman  of  Montrose,  coming  not  from  the  near 
liills,  as  one  at  first  fancies,  but  from  the  Ochiltree  Castle, 
which  in  Mercator’s  old  map  of  1G37  I find  in  the  centre  of 
the  archbishopric,  then  extending  from  Glasgow  to  Wigtown, 
and  correspondent  to  that  of  St.  Andrew’s  on  the  east, — the 
subordinate  bishopric  of  Candida  Casa,  answering  to  that  of 
Dunkeld,  with  the  bishoprics  of  the  isles  Sura,  Mura,  and 
Isla.  It  is  also,  Mercator  adds  in  his  note,  called  the  “ bish- 
opric of  Galloway.” 

“Even  I,”  says  Joanie,  again,  “remember  old  people  who 
knew  the  real  ‘ Old  Mortality.’  He  used  to  come  through 
all  the  Galloway  district  to  clean  and  re-cut  the  old  worn 
gravestones  of  the  martyrs  ; sometimes,  I have  been  told,  to 
f.he  long  since  disused  kirkyard  of  Kirkchrist,  the  place  where 


PUMTERITA, 


446 

my  great  aunt,  Mrs.  Churcli  (Oarlyle’s  friend,  of  whom  I have 
spoken)  began  her  married  life.  Kirkchrist  is  just  on  the 
opposite  side  from  Kirkcudbright,  overlooking  the  Kiver 
Dee.”  • 

I must  go  back  to  a middle-aged  map  of  1773,  to  find  the 
noble  river  rightly  traced  from  its  source  above  Kenmure 
Castle  to  the  winding  bay  which  opens  into  Solway,  by  St. 
Mary’s  Isle  ; where  Kirkchrist  is  marked  as  Christ  K,  with  a 
cross,  indicating  the  church  then  existing. 

I was  staying  with  Arthur  and  Joan,  at  Kenmure  Castle 
itself  in  the  3’ear  1876,  and  remember  much  of  its  dear  peo- 
ple : and,  among  the  prettiest  scenes  of  Scottish  gardens,  the 
beautiful  trees  on  the  north  of  that  lawn  on  which  the  last 
muster  met  for  King  Chailes  ; “ and  you  know,”  says  Joanie, 
“ the  famous  song  that  used  to  inspire  them  all,  of  ‘ Ken- 
rnure’s  on  and  awa,  Willie  ! ’ ” * The  thoughts  come  too  fast 
upon  me,  for  before  Joanie  said  this,  I was  trying  to  recollect 
on  what  height  above  Solwa}%  Dai'sie  Latimer  pauses  with 
Wandering  Willie,  in  whom  Scott  records  for  ever  the  glory, 
— not  of  Scottish  music  only,  but  of  all  Manic,  rightly  so 
called, — which  is  a part  of  God’s  own  creation,  becoming  an 
expression  of  the  purest  hearts. 

I cannot  pause  now  to  find  the  spot,f  and  still  less  the 
church}"ard  in  which,  at  the  end  of  Wandering  Willie’s  tale, 
his  grandsire  wakes  : but,  to  the  living  reader,  I have  this  to 
say  very  earnestly,  that  the  whole  glory  and  blessing  of  these 
sacred  coasts  depended  on  the  rise  and  fall  of  their  eternal 
sea,  over  sands  which  the  sunset  gilded  \vith  its  withdrawing 
glow,  from  the  measureless  dist.ances  of  the  west,  on  the 
ocean  horizon,  or  veiled  in  silvery  mists,  or  shadowed  with 


* “ Lady  Huntley  plays  Scotch  tunes  like  a Highland  angel.  She 
ran  a set  of  variations  on  ‘ Keumure's  on  and  awa.’  which  I told  her 
were  enough  to  raise  a whole  country-side.  I never  in  niy  life  heard 
such  fire  thi-owu  into  tliat  sort  of  music.” — Sir  Walter  writing  to  his 
daughter  Sophia.  Lockhart's  “ Life  A vol.  iv. , page  871. 

f It  is  on  the  highest  hit  of  moor  between  Dumfries  and  Annan. 
Wandering  Willie's  pari.shine  ” is  only  thus  defined  in  “ Rcdgauntlet  ” 
— “They  ca’  the  place  Primrose  Knowe.” 


JOANNA'S  GAIiE. 


44  T 

fast-flying  storm,  of  which  nevertheless  every  cloud  was  pure, 
and  the  winter  snows  blanched  in  the  starlight.  For  myself, 
the  impressions  of  the  Solway  sands  are  a part  of  the  greatest 
teaching  that  ever  I received  during  the  joy  of  youth  : — for 
Turner,  they  became  the  most  pathetic  that  formed  his  char- 
acter in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the  five  Liber  Studiorum  sub- 
jects, “Solway  Moss,”  “Peat  Bog,  Scotland,”  “The  Falls  of 
Clyde,”  “Ben  Arthur,”  and  “ Dumblaue  Abbey,”  remain 
more  complete  expressions  of  his  intellect,  and  more  noble 
monuments  of  his  art,  than  all  his  mightiest  Jifter  work,  until 
the  days  of  sunset  in  the  west  came  for  it  also. 

As  “ Bedgauiitlet  ” is,  in  its  easily  readable  form,  inacces- 
sible, nowadays,  I quote  at  once  the  two  passages  which 
prove  Scott’s  knowledge  of  music,  and  the  strong  impression 
made  on  him  by  the  scenery  between  Dumfries  and  Annan. 
Hear,  first,  of  Darsie  Latimer’s  escape  from  the  simplicity  of 
his  Quaker  friends  to  the  open  downs  of  the  coast  which  had 
formerly  seemed  so  waste  and  dreaiy.  “ The  air  I breathed 
felt  purer  and  more  bracing  ; the  clouds,  riding  high  upon 
a summer  breeze,  drove  in  gaj'  succession  over  my  head,  now 
obscuring  the  sun,  now  letting  its  rays  stream  in  transient 
flashes  upon  various  parts  of  the  landscape,  and  especially 
upon  the  broad  mirror  of  the  distant  Frith  of  Solway.” 

A moment  afterward  he  catches  the  tune  of  “ Old  Sir 
Thom  a Lyne,”  sung  by  three  musicians  cosily  niched  into 
what  }mu  miglit  call  a hunker,'^  a little  sand-pit,  dry  and  snug,, 
surrounded  by  its  banks,  and  a screen  of  furze  in  full  bloom. 
Of  whom  the  3'oungest,  Benjie,  “ at  first  somewhat  dismayed 
at  my  appearance,  but  calculating  on  my  placabilitrf,  almost 
ill  one  breath  assured  the  itinerants  that  I ivas  a grand  gen- 
tleman, and  had  plenty  of  money,  and  was  very  kind  to  poor 
folk,  and  informed  me  that  this  was  Willie  Steenson,  ‘ Wan- 
dering Willie,  the  best  fiddler  that  ever  kittled  thairrn  (cat- 
gut) with  horsehair.’  I asked  him  if  he  was  of  this  country. 
^ This  country  ! ’ replied  the  blind  man,  ‘and  of  every  country 


is  a modem  word,  meauing,  first,  a large  chest  ; then,  a recess 
scooped  ill  soft  rock. 


PR^^TERITA. 


4 IS 

ill  broad  Scotland,  and  a wee  bit  of  England  to  the  boot. 
But  yet  I am  in  some  sense  of  this  country,  for  I was  bom 
within  hearing  of  the  roar  of  Solway.' 

I must  pause  again  to  tell  the  modern  reader  that  no  word 
is  ever  used  by  Scott  in  a hackneyed  sense.  For  three  hun- 
dred years  of  English  commonplace,  roar  has  rhymed  to 
shore,  as  breeze  to  trees ; yet  in  this  sentence  the  word  is  as 
powerful  as  if  it  had  never  been  written  till  now  ! for  no 
other  sound  of  the  sea  is  for  an  instant  comparable  to  the 
breaking  of  deep  ocean,  as  it  rises  over  great  spaces  of  sand. 
In  its  rise  and  fall  on  a rocky  coast,  it  is  either  perfectly 
silent,  or,  if  it  strike,  it  is  with  a crash,  or  a blow  like  that  of 
a heavy  gun.  Therefore,  under  ordinary  conditions,  there 
may  be  either  splash,  or  crash,  or  sigh,  or  boom  ; but  not  roar. 
But  the  hollow  sound  of  the  countless  ranks  of  surfy  break- 
ers, rolling  mile  after  mile  in  ceaseless  following,  everyone 
of  them  with  the  apparent  anger  and  threatening  of  a fate 
which  is  assured  death  unless  fled  from, — the  sound  of  this 
approach,  over  quicksands,  and  into  inextricable  gulfs  of 
mountain  bay,  this,  heard  far  out  at  sea,  or  heard  far  inland, 
through  the  peace  of  secure  night — or  stormless  day,  is  still 
an  eternal  voice,  with  the  harmony  in  it  of  a mighty  law, 
and  the  gloom  of  a mortal  warning. 

“The  old  man  preluded  as  he  spoke,  and  then  taking  the 
old  tune  of  ‘Galashiels’  for  his  theme,  he  graced  it  with  a 
wildness  of  complicated  and  beautiful  variations  ; during 
which  it  was  wonderful  to  observe  how  his  sightless  face  was 
liglited  up  under  the  conscious  pride  and  heartfelt  delight  in 
the  exercise  of  his  own  very  considerable  powers. 

“ ‘ What  think  you  of  that  now,  for  threescore  and  twa?  ’ ” 

I pause  again  to  distinguish  this  noble  pride  of  a man  of 
unerring  genius,  in  the  power  which  all  his  life  has  been  too 
short  to  attain,  up  to  the  point  he  conceives  of, — from  the 
base  complacency  of  the  narrow  brain  and  dull  heart,  in  their 
own  chosen  ways  of  indolence  or  error. 

The  feeling  comes  out  more  distinctly  still,  three  pages 
forward,  when  his  wife  tells  him,  “The  gentleman  is  a gen- 
tleman, Willie  ; ye  maunna  speak  that  gate  to  him,  hinnie.” 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


449 


“ The  cleevil  I mauuna  ! ” said  Willie,  * “ and  what  for  maiin- 
na  I?  If  he  was  ten  gentles,  he  camia  draw  a how  like  me^ 
can  hef 

I need  to  insist  upon  this  distinction,  at  this  time  in  Eng- 
land especially,  when  the  names  of  artists,  whose  birth  was 
an  epoch  in  the  world’s  history,  are  dragged  through  tlie  gut- 
ters of  Paris,  Manchester,  and  New  Yoik,  to  decorate  the  last 
puti's  written  for  a morning  concert,  or  a montlily  exhibition. 
I have  just  turned  out  of  the  house  a book  in  which  I am 
told  by  tlie  modern  picture  dealer  that  Mr.  A.,  B.,  0.,  D.,  or 
F.  is  “ the  Mozart  of  the  nineteenth  century  ” ; the  fact  being 
that  Mozart’s  birth  wrote  the  laws  of  melody  for  all  the  world 
as  irrevocably  as  if  they  had  been  set  down  by  the  waves  of 
Solway  ; and  as  widely  as  the  birth  of  St.  Gregory  in  the 
sixth  century  fixed  to  its  date  forever  the  establishment  of 
the  laws  of  musical  expression.  Men  of  perfect  genius  are 
known  in  all  centuries  by  their  perfect  respect  to  all  law,  and 
love  of  past  tradition  ; their  work  in  the  world  is  never  inno- 
vation, but  new  creation  ; without  disturbing  for  an  instant 
the  foundations  which  were  laid  of  old  time.  One  would 
have  imagined — at  least,  anyone  but  Scott  would  have  imag- 
ined— that  a Scottish  blind  fiddler  would  have  been  only  the 
exponent  of  Scottish  feeling  and  Scottish  art  ; it  was  even 
with  astonishment  that  I myself  read  the  conclusion  of  his 
dialogue  with  Darsie  Latimer  : “ ‘ Are  ye  in  the  wont  of 


* Joanie  tel)<5  me  she  has  often  heard  the  fame  of  the  Wandering 
Willie  spoken  of  : he  was  well  known  in  travel  from  the  Border  right  into 
Galloway,  stopping  to  play  in  villages  and  at  all  sorts  of  ont  of  the-way 
houses,  and,  strangely,  siieceeded  by  a blind  woman  fiddler,  who  used  to 
come  led  by  a sister  ; and  the  chief  singing  lessons  in  Joanie’s  young 
days  were  given  through  Galloway  by  a blind  man,  who  played  the  fid- 
dle to  perfection  ; and  his  ear  was  so  correct  that  if  in  a class  of  fifty 
voices  one  note  was  discordant,  he  would  stop  instantly,  tap  loudly  on 
the  fiddle  with  the  back  of  his  bow,  fly  to  the  spot  where  the  wrong 
note  came  from,  pounce  on  the  person,  and  say,  “It  was  and  it’s 
no  use  denying  it ; if  I can’t  see,  I can  hear  ! ” and  he’d  make  the  cul- 
prit go  over  and  over  the  phrase  till  it  was  conquered.  He  always 
opened  the  class  with  a sweeping  scale,  dividing  off  so  many  voices  to 
each  note,  to  follow  in  succession, 

29 


450 


PRv^TERITA. 


drawing  np  wi’  all  the.  gangrel  bodies  that  ye  meet  on  the 
high  road,  or  find  cowering  in  a sand-bnnker  upon  the  links  ? ’ 
demanded  Willie. 

“ ‘ Oh,  no  ! only  with  honest  folks  like  yourself,  Willie/* 
was  my  reply. 

“ ‘ Honest  folks  like  me  ! How  do  ye  ken  whether  I am 
honest,  or  what  I am?  I may  be  the  deevil  himsell  for  what 
ye  ken  ; for  he  has  power  to  come  disguised  like  an  angel  of 
light ; and  besides,  he  is  a prime  fiddler.  He  played  a sonata 
to  Corelli,  ye  ken.’” 

This  reference  to  the  simplest  and  purest  writer  of  Italian 
melody  being  not  for  the  sake  of  the  story,  but  because  Wil- 
lie’s own  art  had  been  truly  founded  upon  him,  so  that  he 
had  been  really  an  angel  of  music,  as  well  as  light  to  him. 
See  the  beginning  of  the  dialogue  in  the  previous  page. 
“ ‘ Do  you  ken  the  Laird  ? ’ said  Willie,  interrupting  an  over- 
ture of  Corelli,  of  which  he  had  whistled  several  bars  with 
great  precision.” 

I must  pause  again,  to  crowd  together  one  or  two  explana- 
tions of  the  references  to  music  in  my  own  writings  hitherto, 
which  I can  here  sum  by  asking  the  reader  to  compare  the  use 
of  the  voice  in  war,  beginning  with  the  cry  of  Achilles  on  the 
Greek  wall,  down  to  what  may  be  named  as  the  two  great 
instances  of  modern  choral  war-song  : the  singing  of  the 
known  Church-hymn  * at  the  Battle  of  Leuthen  (‘‘Friedrich,” 
vol.  ii.,  p.  259),  in  which  “ five-and-twenty  thousand  victor 
voices  joined  : ” 

“ Now  thank  God  one  and  all, 

With  heart,  with  voice,  with  hands, 

Who  wonders  great  hath  done 
To  us  and  to  all  lands ; ” — 

and,  on  the  counter  side,  the  song  of  the  Marseillaise  on  the 
march  to  Paris,  which  began  the  conquests  of  the  French 
Kevolution,  in  turning  the  tide  of  its  enemies.  Compare 
these,  I say,  with  the  debased  use  of  modern  military  bands 

* Pmlm,  I believe,  rather  ; but  see  my  separate  notes  on  St.  Louis* 
Psalter  (now  in  preparation). 


JOANNA'S  GAEE. 


451 


at  dinners  and  dances,  whicli  inaugurate  sucli  victory  as  ive 
bad  at  the  Battle  of  Balaclava,  and  the  modern  no-Battle 
of  the  Baltic,  when  our  entire  war  fleet,  a vast  job  of  iron- 
mongers, retreated,  under  Sir  C.  Napier,  from  before  the 
Russian  fortress  of  Cronstadt. 

I preface  with  this  question  the  repetition  of  what  I have 
always  taught,  that  the  Voice  is  tlie  eternal  musical  instru- 
ment of  Iieaven  and  earth,  from  angels  down  to  birds.  Half 
way  between  them,  my  little  Joanie  sang  me  yesterday,  13tli 
May,  1889,  “Farewell,  Manchester,”  and  “ Golden  Slumbers,” 
t\vo  pieces  of  consummate  melody,  which  can  only  be  ex- 
pressed by  the  voice,  and  belonging  to  the  group  of  like 
melodies  which  have  been,  not  invented,  but  inspired,  to  all 
nations  in  the  days  of  their  loyalty  to  God,  to  their  prince, 
and  to  themselves.  That  Manchester  has  since  become  the 
funnel  of  a volcano,  which,  not  content  with  vomiting  pesti- 
lence, gorges  the  whole  rain  of  heaven,  that  falls  over  a dis- 
trict as  distant  as  the  ancient  Scottish  border, — is  not  indeed 
wholly  Manchester’s  fault,  nor  altogether  Charles  Stuart’s 
fault ; the  beginning  of  both  faults  is  in  the  substitution  of 
mercenary  armies  for  the  troops  of  nations  led  by  their  Jdngs. 
Had  Queen  Mary  led,  like  Zenobia,  at  Langside  ; had  Charles 
I.  charged  instead  of  Prince  Rupert  at  Naseby ; and  Prince 
Edward  bade  Lochiel  follow  him  at  Culloden,  we  should  not 
to-day  have  been  debating  who  was  to  be  our  king  at  Birming- 
ham or  Glasgow.  For  the  rest  I take  the  bye-help  that  Fors 
gives  me  in  this  record  of  the  power  of  a bird’s  voice  only.'^ 


* “An  extraovdinary  scene  is  to  be  witnessed  every  evening  at  Leices- 
ter in  the  freemen’s  allotment  gardens,  where  a nightingale  has  estab- 
lished itself.  The  midnight  songster  was  first  heard  a week  ago,  and 
ever}"  evening  hundreds  of  people  line  the  roads  near  the  trees  where 
tlie  bird  has  his  haunt.  The  crowds  patiently  wait  till  the  music  begins, 
and  the  bulk  of  the  listeners  remain  till  midnight,  while  a number  of 
enthn.siasts  linger  till  one  and  two  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Strange  to 
say,  the  bird  usually  sings  in  a large  thorn  bush  just  over  the  mouth  of 
tlie  tunnel  of  the  Midland  main  line,  but  the  songster  is  heedless  of 
noise,  and  smoke,  and  steam,  his  .stream  of  song  being  uninterrupted 
for  four  or  live  hours  every  night.  So  large  has  been  the  throng  of 


452 


PR^TElilTA. 


But  the  distinction  of  the  music  of  Scotland  from  every 
other  is  in  its  association  with  sweeter  natural  sounds,  and 
filling  a deeper  silence.  As  Fors  also  ordered  it,  yesterday 
afternoon,  before  Joanie  sang  tnese  songs  to  me,  I had  been, 
for  the  first  time  since  my  return  from  Venice,  down  to  the 
shore  of  my  own  lake,  with  her  and  her  two  youngest  chil- 
dren, at  the  little  promontory  of  shingle  thrown  out  into  it 
by  the  only  mount:un  brook  on  this  eastern  side,  (Beck 
Leven,)  which  commands  the  windings  of  its  wooded  shore 
under  Furness  Fells,  and  the  calm  of  its  fairest  expanse  of 
mirror  wave, — a scene  which  is  in  general  jdmost  melancholy 
in  its  perfect  solitude  ; but,  when  the  woods  are  in  their 
gladness,  and  the  green — how  much  purer,  how  much  softer 
than  ever  emerald  ! — of  their  unsullied  spring,  and  the  light 
of  dawning  summer,  possessing  alike  the  clouds  and  moun- 
tains of  the  west, — it  is,  literally,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  strange  remnants  of  all  that  was  once  most  sacred  in  this 
British  land, — all  to  which  we  owe,  whether  the  heart,  or  the 
voice,  of  the  Douglas  “ tender  and  true,”  or  the  minstrel  of 
the  Eildons,  or  the  bard  of  Plynlimmon,  or  the  Ellen  of  the 
lonely  Isle, — to  whose  lips  Scott  has  entrusted  the  most 
beautiful  Ave  Maria  that  was  ever  sung,  and  which  can  never 
be  sung  rightly  again  until  it  is  remembered  that  the  harp  io 
the  true  ancient  instrument  of  Scotland,  as  well  as  of  Ireland.* 


listeners  that  the  chief  constable  has  drafted  a number  of  policemen  to 
maintain  order  and  prevent  damage.” — Pall  Mail  Gazette,  May  11th, 
1889. 

* Although  the  violin  was  known  ns  early  as  1270,  and  occurs  again 
and  again  in  French  and  Italian  sculpture  and  illumination,  its  intro- 
duction, in  super.seding  both  the  voice,  the  golden  bell,  and  the  silver 
trumpet,  was  entirely  owing  to  the  demoralization  of  the  Spanish 
kingdom  in  Naples,  of  which  Evelyn  writes  in  1644,  “The  building  of 
the  city  is,  for  the  size,  the  most  magnificent  in  Europe.  To  it  belongeth 
three  thousand  churches  and  monasteries,  and  those  best  built  and 
adorned  of  any  in  Italy.  They  greatly  affect  the  Spanish  gravity  in 
their  habit,  delight  in  good  horses,  the  streets  are  full  of  gallants  on 
horseback,  and  in  coaches  and  sedans,  from  hence  first  brought  into 
England  by  Sir  Sanders  Duncomb  ; the  country  people  so  jovial,  and 
addicted  to  music,  that  the  very  husbandmen  almost  universally  play 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


453 


I am  afraid  of  being  diverted  too  far  from  Solway  Moss,  and 
must  ask  the  reader  to  look  back  to  my  description  of  the 
Si^irit  of  music  in  the  Spanish  chapel  at  Florence  (“The 
Strait  Gate,”  pages  134  and  135),  remembering  only  this  pas- 
sage at  the  beginning  of  it,  “ After  learning  to  reason,  you 
will  learn  to  sing  : for  you  will  want  to.  There  is  much 
reason  for  singing  in  the  sweet  world,  when  one  thinks 
rightly  of  it.  None  for  grumbling,  provided  always  you  have 
entered  in  at  the  strait  gait.  You  will  sing  all  along  the 
road  then,  in  a little  while,  in  a manner  pleasant  for  other 
people  to  hear,” 

I will  only  return  to  Scott  for  one  half  page  more,  in  which 
he  has  contrasted  with  his  utmost  masterhood  the  impres- 
sions of  English  and  Scottish  landscape.  Few  scenes  of  the 
world  have  been  oftener  described,  with  the  utmost  skill  and 
sincerity  of  authors,  than  the  view  from  Kichmond  Hill  sixty 
yeai-s  since  ; but  none  can  be  compared  with  the  ten  lines  in 
“ The  Heart  of  Midlothian,”  edition  of  1830,  page  374.  “ A 

huge  sea  of  verdure,  with  crossing  and  intersecting  promon- 
tories of  massive  and  tufted  groves,  was  tenanted  by  number- 
less flocks  and  herds,  which  seemed  to  wander  unrestrained, 
and  unbounded,  through  the  rich  pastures.  The  Thames, 
here  turreted  with  villas,  and  there  garlanded  with  forests, 
moved  on  slowly  and  placidly,  like  the  mighty  monarch  of 
the  scene,  to  whom  all  its  other  beauties  were  but  accessories, 
and  bore  on  his  bosom  a hundred  barks  and  skiffs,  whose 
white  sails  and  gayly  fluttering  pennons  gave  life  to  the 
whole. 

on  the  gnitar,  singing  and  composing  songs  in  praise  of  their  sweet- 
hearts. and  will  commonly  go  to  the  field  with  their  fiddle, — they  are 
merry,  witty,  and  genial,  all  which  I attribute  to  the  excellent  quality 
of  the  air.” 

What  Evelyn  means  by  the  fiddle  is  not  quite  certain,  since  he  him- 
self, going  to  study  “ in  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea,”  there  learned  to 
play  on  “ ye  theorba,  taught  by  Signior  Dominico  Bassano,  who  had  a 
daughter  married  to  a doctor  of  laws,  that  played  and  sung  to  nine 
several  instruments,  with  that  skill  and  addresse  as  few  masters  in 
Italy  exceeded  her  ; she  likewise  composed  divers  excellent  pieces.  I 
had  never  seen  any  play  on  the  Naples  viol  before,” 


454 


FB^TEBITA. 


‘'As  the  Duke  of  Argyle  looked  on  this  inimitable  land- 
scape, his  thoughts  naturally  reverted  to  his  own  more  grand 
and  scarce  less  beautiful  domains  of  Inverary.  ‘ This  is  a fine 
scene,’  he  said  to  his  companion,  curious  perhaps  to  draw  out 
her  sentiments  ; ‘ we  have  nothing  like  it  in  Scotland.’  ‘ It’s 
braw  rich  feeding  for  the  cows,  and  they  have  a fine  breed  o’ 
cattle  here,’  replied  Jeanie  ; ‘ but  I like  just  as  weel  to  look  at 
tlie  craigs  of  Arthur’s  Seat,  and  the  sea  coming  in  ayont  them, 
as  at  a’  thae  muckle  trees.’” 

I do  not  know  ho\v  often  I have  already  vainly  dw^elt  on  the 
■vulgarity  and  vainness  of  the  pride  in  mere  magnitude  of  tim- 
ber which  began  in  Evelyn’s  “Sylva,”  and  now  is  endlessly 
measuring,  whether  Californian  pines  or  Parisian  towers, — of 
which,  though  they  could  darken  continents,  and  hide  the 
stars,  the  entire  substance,  cost,  and  pleasure  are  not  \vorth 
one  gleam  of  leafage  in  Kelvin  Grove,  or  glow  of  rowan  tree 
by  the  banks  of  Earn,  or  branch  of  wild  rose  of  Hazel  dean  ; — 
but  I may  forget,  unless  I speak  of  it  here,  a walk  in  Scott’s 
own  haunt  of  Rhymer’s  Glen,*  where  the  brook  is  narrowest 
in  its  sandstone  bed,  and  Mary  Ker  stopped  to  gather  a wild 
rose  for  me.  Her  brother,  then  the  youngest  captain  in  the 
English  navy,  afterward  gave  his  pure  soul  up  to  his  Captain, 


* “Captain  Adam  Ferguson,  who  liad  written,  from  the  lines  of  Tor- 
res Vedras,  liis  liopes  of  finding,  wlien  tlie  war  should  be  over,  some 
shelteri ug  cottage  upon  the  Tweed,  within  a walk  of  Abbotsford,  was 
de’ighted  to  see  his  dreams  realized  ; and  the  family  took  up  their  resi- 
dence ne.xt  spring  at  the  new  house  of  Toftfield,  on  which  Scott  then 
bestowed,  at  the  ladies’  request,  the  name  of  Huntley  Burn  ; — this  more 
harmonious  designation  being  taken  from  the  mountain  brook  which 
passes  througli  its  grounds  and  gai'den,  — the  same  famous  in  tra<lition 
as  the  scene  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer’s  interviews  with  the  Queen  of 
Fairy. 

“ On  completing  this  purchase,  Scott  writes  to  John  Ballantyim  : — 
‘Dear  John, — I have  closed  wMth  Usher  for  his  beautiful  patrimony, 
which  makes  me  a great  laird.  I am  afraid  the  people  will  take  me  up 
for  coining.  Indeed  these  novels,  while  their  attractions  last,  are  some- 
thing like  it.  T am  very  glad  of  your  good  prospects.  Still  I cry,  l*ru- 
{fence!  Prudence!  Yours  truly,  W.  S.’” — Lockhart's  Life  A vol.  iv., 
page  82. 


JOANNA^  S CARE. 


455 


Christ, — not  like  banished  Norfolk,  but  becoming  a monk  in 
the  Jesuits’  College,  Hampton. 

And  still  I have  not  room  enough  to  say  what  I should  like 
of  Joanie’s  rarest,  if  not.  chiefest  merit,  her  beautiful  dancimr. 
Real  dancing,  not  jumping,  or  whirling,  or  trotting,  or  jig- 
ging, but  dancing, — like  Green  Mantle’s  in  “ Redgauntlet,” 
winning  applause  from  men  and  gods,  whether  the  fishermen 
and  ocean  Gods  of  Solway,  or  the  marchmen  and  mountain 
Gods  of  Cheviot.'^  Karest,  nowadays,  of  -all  the  gifts  of  cul- 


* I must  liere  once  for  all  explain  distinctly  to  the  most  matter  of- 
fact  reader,  the  sense  in  which  throughout  all  my  earnest  writiug  of  the 
last  twenty  years  I use  the  j>lural  word  “gods.”  I mean  by  it,  the 
totality  of  spiritual  powers,  delegated  by  the  Lord  of  the  universe  to  do, 
in  their  several  heights,  or  offices,  parts  of  His  will  respecting  men,  or 
the  world  that  man  is  imprisoned  in  ; — not  as  myself  knowing,  or  in 
security  believing,  that  there  are  such,  but  in  meekness  accepting  the 
testimony  and  belief  of  all  ages,  to  the  presence,  in  heaven  and  earth, 
of  angels,  principalities,  powers,  thrones,  and  the  like, — with  genii, 
fairies,  or  spirits  ministering  and  guardian,  or  destroying  or  tempting  ; 
or  aiding  good  work  and  inspiring  the  mightiest.  For  all  these,  I take 
the  general  w'ord  “gods,”  as  the  best  understood  in  all  languages,  and 
the  truest  and  widest  in  meaning,  including  the  minor  ones  of  seraph, 
cherub,  ghost,  wraith,  and  the  like  ; and  myself  knowing  for  an  indis- 
putable fact,  that  no  true  happiness  exists,  nor  is  any  good  work  ever 
done  by  human  creatures,  but  in  the  sense  or  imagination  of  such  pres- 
ences. The  following  passage  from  the  first  volume  of  “ Fors  Clavigera” 
gives  example  of  the  sense  in  which  I most  literally  and  earnestly  refer 
to  them  : — 

“You  think  it  a great  triumph  to  make  the  sun  draw  brown  land- 
scapes for  you ! That  was  also  a discovery,  and  some  day  may  be  use- 
ful. But  the  sun  had  drawn  landscapes  before  for  you,  not  in  brown, 
but  in  green,  and  blue,  and  all  imaginable  colors,  here  in  England. 
Not  one  of  you  ever  looked  at  them,  then  ; not  one  of  you  cares  for  the 
loss  of  them,  now,  when  you  have  shut  the  sun  out  with  smoke,  so  that 
he  can  draw  nothing  more,  except  brown  blots  through  a hole  in  a box. 
There  was  a rocky  valley  between  Buxton  and  Bakewell.  once  upon  a 
time,  divine  as  the  vale  of  Tempe  ; you  might  have  seen  the  gods  there 
morning  and  evening, — Apollo  and  all  the  sweet  Muses  of  the  Light, 
walking  in  fair  procession  on  the  lawns  of  it,  and  to  and  fro  among  the 
pinnacles  of  its  crags.  You  cared  neither  for  gods  nor  grass,  but  for 
cash  (which  you  did  not  know  the  way  to  get).  You  thought  you  could 
get  it  by  what  the  calls  ‘ Kailroad  Enterprise.’  You  enterpvised 


456 


PRJETERITA. 


tivated  womankind.  It  used  to  be  said  of  a Swiss  girl,  in 
terms  of  commendation,  she  “prays  well  and  dances  well 
but  now,  no  human  creature  can  pray  at  the  pace  of  our  com- 
mon prayers,  or  dance  at  the  pace  of  popular  gavottes, — more 
especially  the  last ; for  however  fast  the  clergyman  may  gab- 
ble, or  the  choir-boys  yowl,  their  psalms,  an  earnest  reader 
can  always  think  his  prayer,  to  the  end  of  the  verse  ; but  no 
mortal  footing  can  give  either  the  right  accent,  or  the  due 
pause,  in  any  beautiful  step,  at  the  pace  of  modern  waltz  or 
polka  music.  Nay,  even  the  last  quadrille  I ever  saw  well 
danced,  (and  would  have  given  half  my  wits  to  have  joined 
hands  in,)  by  Jessie  and  Vicky  Yokes,  with  Fred  and  Eosina, 
was  in  truth  not  a quadrille,  or  four-square  dance,  but  a 
beautifully  flying  romj).  But  Joanie  could  always  dance 
everything  rightly *  * having  not  only  the  brightest  light  and 
warmth  of  heart,  but  a faultless  foot ; faultless  in  freedom — 


a railroad  throngli  the  valley,  you  blasted  its  rocks  away,  heaped  thou- 
sands of  tons  of  shale  into  its  lovely  stream.  The  valley  is  gone,  and 
the  gods  with  it  ; and  now,  every  fool  in  Buxton  can  be  at  Bakewell  in 
half- an  hour,  and  every  fool  in  Bakewell  at  Buxton  ; which  you  think 
a lucrative  process  of  exchange,  you  Fools  everywhere!  ” 

* Of  ricjht  dancing,  in  its  use  on  the  stage,  see  the  repeated  notices  in 
“ Time  and  Tide.”  Here  is  the  most  careful  one  : — “She  did  it  beau- 
tifully and  simply,  as  a child  ought  to  dance.  She  was  not  an  infant 
prodigy  ; there  was  no  evidence,  in  the  finish  or  strength  of  her  motion, 
that  she  had  been  put  to  continual  torture  through  half  her  eight  or 
nine  years.  She  did  nothing  more  than  any  child,  well  taught,  but 
painlessly',  might  do.  She  caricatured  no  older  person, — attempted 
no  curious  or  fantastic  skill.  She  was  dressed  decently,— she  moved 
decently,— she  looked  and  behaved  innocently,— and  she  danced  her 
joyful  dance  with  perfect  grace,  spirit,  sweetness,  and  self  forgetfulness. 
>\iid  through  all  the  vast  theatre,  full  of  English  fathers  and  mothers 
and  children,  there  was  not  one  hand  lifted  to  give  her  sign  of  praise 
but  mine. 

Presently  after  this  came  on  the  forty  thieves,  who,  as  I told  you, 
were  girls  ; and  there  being  no  thieving  to  be  presently  done,  and  time 
hanging  heavy  on  their  hands,  arms,  and  legs,  the  forty  thief  girls  pro- 
ceeded to  light  forty  cigars.  Whereupon  the  British  public  gave  them  a 
round  of  applause. 

Whereupon  I fell  a-thinking  ; and  saw  little  more  of  the  piece,  ex- 
cept as  an  ugly  and  disturbing  dream.” 


JOANNA'S  (JARE. 


45T 


never  iiaiTOwed,  or  lifted  into  point  or  arch  by  its  boot  or 
heei,  but  level,  and  at  ease  ; small,  almonl  to  a fault,  and  in  its 
swiftest  steps  rising  and  falling  with  the  gentleness  which 
only  Byron  has  found  words  for— 

‘ ‘ Naked  foot, 

That  shines  like  snow — and  falls  on  earth  as  mute.” 

The  modern  artificial  ideal  being,  on  the  contraiy,  expressed 
by  the  manner  of  stamp  or  tap,  as  in  the  Laureate’s  line  — 

“ She  tapped  her  tiny  silken  sandalled  foot.” 

From  which  type  the  way  is  short,  and  has  since  been  trave5*sed 
quickly,  to  the  conditions  of  patten,  clog,  golosh,  and  liigh- 
heeled  bottines,  with  the  real  back  of  the  foot  thrown  behind 
tlie  ankle  like  a negress’s,  which  have  distressed  alike,  and 
disgraced,  all  feminine  motion  for  the  last  quarter  of  a cen- 
tuiy, — the  slight  harebell  having  little  chance  enough  of 
raising  its  head,  once  well  under  the  hoofs  of  our  proud 
maidenhood,  decorate  with  dead  robins,  transfixed  humming- 
birds, and  hothouse  flowers, — for  its  “ Wedding  March  by 
Mendelssohn.”  To  think  that  there  is  not  enough  love  or 
praise  in  all  Europe  and  America  to  invent  one  other  tune 
for  the  poor  things  to  strut  to ! 

I draw  back  to  my  own  home,  twenty  years  ago,  permitted 
to  thank  Heaven  once  more  for  the  peace,  and  hope,  and 
loveliness  of  it,  and  the  Elysian  walks  with  Joanie,  and 
Paradisaical  with  Rosie,  under  the  peach-blossom  branches  by 
the  little  glittering  stream  which  I had  paved  with  crystal  for 
them.  I had  built  behind  the  highest  cluster  of  laurels  a 
reservoir,  from  which,  on  sunny  afternoons,  I could  let  a 
quite  rippling  film  of  water  run  for  a couple  of  hours  down 
behind  the  hayfield,  where  the  grass  in  spring  still  grew 
fresh  and  deep.  There  used  to  be  always  a corncralm  or  tvvo 
in  it.  Twilight  after  twilight  I have  hunted  that  bird,  and 
never  once  got  glimpse  of  it : the  voice  was  always  at  the 
other  side  of  the  field,  or  in  the  inscrutable  air  or  earth. 
And  the  little  stream  had  its  falls,  and  pools,  and  imaginary 


458 


PRJSTERITA. 


lakes.  .Here  and  there  it  laid  for  itself  lines  of  graceful 
sand  ; there  and  here  it  lost  itself  under  beads  of  chalcedony. 
It  wasn’t  the  Liffey,  nor  the  Nith,  nor  the  Wandel ; but  the 
two  girls  were  surely  a little  cruel  to  call  it  “ The  Gutter ! ” 
Happiest  times,  for  all  of  us,  that  ever  w^ere  to  be ; not  but 
that  Joanie  and  her  Arthur  are  giddy  enough,  both  of  them 
yet,  with  their  five  little  ones,  but  they  have  been  sorely 
anxious  about  me,  and  I have  been  sorrowful  enough  for  my- 
self, since  ever  I lost  sight  of  that  peach-blossom  avenue. 
“ Eden-land  ” Kosie  calls  it  sometimes  in  her  letters.  Whether 
its  tiny  river  were  of  the  waters  of  Abana,  or  Euphrates,  or 
Thamesis,  I know  not,  but  they  were  sweeter  to  my  thirst 
than  the  fountains  of  Trevi  or  Branda. 

How  things  bind  and  blend  themselves  together!  The 
last  time  I saw  the  Fountain  of  Trevi,  it  was  from  Arthur’s 
father’s  room — Joseph  Severn’s,  where  we  both  took  Joanie 
to  see  him  in  1872,  and  the  old  man  made  a sweet  drawing 
of  his  pretty  daughter-in-law,  now  in  her  schoolroom  ; he 
himself  then  eager  in  finishing  his  last  picture  of  the  Marriage 
in  Cana,  which  he  had  caused  to  take  place  under  a vine 
trellis,  and  delighted  himself  by  painting  the  crystal  and  ruby 
glittering  of  the  changing  rivulet  of  water  out  of  the  Greek 
vase,  glowing  into  wine.  Fonte  Branda  I last  saw  with 
Charles  Norton,*  under  the  same  arches  where  Dante  saw  it. 


* I must  here  say  of  Joanna  and  Charges  Norton  this  mnch  farther, 
that  they  were  mostly  of  a mind  in  the  advice  they  gave  me  about  my 
books  ; and  though  .Joan  was,  as  it  must  have  been  already  enough 
seen,  a true-bred  Jacobite,  she  curiously  objected  to  my  early  Catholic 
opinions  as  roundly  as  either  Norton  or  John  P.  Robinson.  The  three 
of  them — not  counting  Lady  Trevelyan  or  little  Connie,  (all  together 
five  opponent  powers) -may  be  held  practically  answerable  for  my  hav- 
ing never  followed  up  the  historic  study  begun  in  Val  d’Arno,  for  it 
chanced  that,  alike  in  Florence,  Siena,  and  Rome,  all  these  friends, 
tutors,  or  enchantresses  were  at  different  times  amusing  themselves 
when  I wuas  at  my  hardest  work ; and  many  happy  days  were  spent  by 
all  of  us  in  somewhat  luxurious  hotel  life,  when  by  rights  I should  have 
been  still  under  Padre  Tino  in  the  sacristy  of  Assisi,  or  Cardinal  Agostini 
at  Venice,  or  the  Pope  himself  at  Rome,  with  my  much  older  friend 
than  any  of  these,  Mr.  Rawdou  Brown’s  perfectly  faithful  and  loving 


JOANNA'S  CARE. 


459 


We  drank  of  it  together,  and  walked  together  that  evening  on 
the  hills  above,  where  the  fireflies  among  the  scented  thickets 
shone  fitfully  in  the  still  iindarkened  air.  Hgio  they  shone ! 
moving  like  fine-broken  starlight  through  the  purple  leaves. 
How  they  shone  ! through  the  sunset  that  faded  into  thunder- 
ous night  as  I entered  Siena  three  days  before,  the  white 
edges  of  the  mountainous  clouds  still  lighted  from  tlie  west, 
and  the  openly  golden  sky  calm  behind  the  Gate  of  Siena’s 
heart  with  its  still  golden  words,  “ Cor  magis  tibi  Sena 
pandit,”  and  the  fireflies  everywdiere  in  sky  and  cloud  rising 
and  falling,  mixed  with  the  lightning  and  more  intense  than 
the  stars. 

Brantwood, 

Jtine  IWi,  1889, 


servant  Antonio,  Of  Joanna’s  and  Connie’s  care  of  me  some  farther 
history  will  certainly,  if  I live,  be  given  in  No.  VII.,  “ The  Rainbows 
of  Giesbach  ” ; of  Chai’les  Norton’s  visit  to  me  there  also. 


■■'  '• 


-iiK)  ’ .,ii^m?/  nivf4‘>g:  JJU  v' 


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